


Le Plafond de Verre

by macsmackeroo



Series: Of Riddles and War [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Black Hermione Granger, Blood and Violence, Characters of Colour, Cousin Incest, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/F, F/M, French Hermione Granger, Gen, Generation Mashup, Hermione Granger-centric, Hermione is Just Trying Her Best, LGBTQ+ characters, Leta Lestrange Lives, M/M, Magical Racism, Martiniquaise Hermione Granger, Original Character(s), Possessive Tom Riddle, Post-Grindelwald's War, Post-World War II, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Sequel, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Unhealthy Relationships, around the world, dark themes, no beta im flying by the seat of my pants, please correct my usage of other languages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 100,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25563496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macsmackeroo/pseuds/macsmackeroo
Summary: Sequel to D'énigmes et Guerre.So, here she was, disillusioned and sneaking her way through Diagon Alley like a common criminal.After the warning that Minister Leach had given her, she was trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, but clearly, whoever was behind...whatever it was, really didn't want to be discovered, and was willing to kill to keep it that way.The year is 1947, and Hermione seems to have fallen right on a devious operation, one that she has every intention of blowing out of the water, but at what cost?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Ron Weasley/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Of Riddles and War [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1779724
Comments: 192
Kudos: 79





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, here's the prologue to 'Le Plafond de Verre', I will try to keep the same strict updating schedule that I had for it's prequel 'D'énigmes et Guerre', if you haven't read it, I welcome you to take a gander at it. 
> 
> This will be encompassing more characters than the last story, this one will likely be 30 chapters, and there will be another story after this one. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Le Plafond de Verre – Prologue – Chateau Lestrange – January 3rd, 1947

Leta Lestrange wandered the hallways of Chateau Lestrange, in Paris, France. It's gilded black marble walls with gold inflects were eye-catching, however, to her, it was a prison all the same.

Twenty years she'd been held under the _I_ _mperius_ by Gellert Grindelwald, a feat that should have been impossible, a feat that the ICW had refused to believe, a feat that saw her sentenced to twenty years of house arrest for the crimes she'd committed during the war. They did not understand, she saw the magic that had surrounded Grindelwald, surrounded the wand that he'd held in his hands, that had consistently allowed him to accomplish incredible, and yet, impossible acts of magic.

Once upon a time, she'd had a ticket out of the hell that was her life, or so she had believed, that she'd had free will and love, but she had been wrong, it had all been an illusion. She'd been caught too deeply within her own depressive sphere, which had haunted her since she'd inadvertently killed her younger brother, Corvus, that she'd direly underestimated how far her family's influence stretched.

She'd been so fool-hardy and naive at thirty-one, when she had walked into the blue flames of her family's tomb at Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, hoping for a release or repentance for her crime against her brother, that she hadn't stopped to truly think _why_ Grindelwald had held that rally in the tomb of her ancestors. Oh, but she had learnt it, she'd had twenty years of being privy to information that inwardly had made her stomach curdle, but could not set a twitch to her lips outwardly. It was why she was not currently rotting in an Azkaban cell, or in Numergard, because, even now, the Lestranges needed to protect their secrets, and she knew far too many of them.

She had learnt that her father, Corvus Lestrange Sr, had been aware of his son's death in 1901, that he'd used a complicated bit of blood magic on his person to be notified of his well-being, a connection that had broken the night he'd died, and it had been the reason Credence Barebone had been left to rot in New York for twenty-six years. He had told her this specifically, while caressing her frozen face, as she'd stood in front of him, imperiused.

She supposed it had made sense, regardless of whatever danger her half-brother, Yusuf Kama, had portended, no Lestrange heir would have been left with literal magic hating muggles his whole life. Her father had told her, that he and his brother, Ramsey, had offered their support to Grindelwald, in return that he bring her back to them. Ramsey Lestrange, originally the head of the British Lestrange conglomerate, as well as her father, Corvus Sr, had not approved of her engagement to Theseus, had not approved of a Lestrange to marry into a family of blood traitors. That despite his disdain for her being born a girl, rather than the son he'd hoped for, it did not mean that she'd been free to “shame” him or her house.

He had forced the truth of her brother's death from her lips and had given her to Grindelwald to serve, and so, she had. She had killed, maimed, and tortured on his orders, had been sent to seduce wizards to his side, and here she was today, at fifty-one years old, and a spectre in this prison, helpless without a wand and her magic bound.

Being stuck in this chateau had been no coincidence either, no, that had been a decision made by her uncle Ramsey, when her father had passed in 1929. It had been he, who had taken the reigns of her life, behind Grindelwald, she was almost certain it had even been him to kill her father. He was the one who had pulled her out of Azkaban, as at his age of ninety, he now held a certain amount of political and financial power over both the English and French governments. She knew it had to do with the Lestrange hold over the prostitution industry, and furthermore, that their fingers were deep in the trafficking world, as well, and he'd known very well that she had enough spite in her to open her mouth to anyone who would listen, regardless of whether she was believed or not.

Internally, she'd initially prayed for Azkaban, to be away from the Lestranges, to see a positive face, even through the bars of a cell, hell, even a dementor would have been of preferable company. She'd heard Theseus's staunch support of her through the years, and it had given her a spark of hope that had kept her sane, even when he'd long ago had married another, it had helped to know that she hadn't been completely abandoned.

Even Newt, who once upon a time had been her dearest friend, had been present at her trial, he had been the one to disarm her during the attack of Diagon Alley, that had finally seen Grindelwald beaten. She remembered that moment clearly because it was as soon as his wand left his hand, claimed by Dumbledore, that she'd regained her mind and control over her own body, she had thought herself finally free until the Aurors had closed in and her fate had been decided far too quickly to have even been a proper trial.

She was broken from her thoughts when she heard voices and realized she'd wandered into the wing of the chateau with her uncle's office. Leta did the quick mental calculations of what eavesdropping would cost her should she be caught and decided she had nothing really to lose anymore, so she sidled up against the wall outside his office, and listened in.

“These elves are hardly so obedient anymore, I cannot believe you voted in favour of that Slytherin upstarts ideals,” someone grunted, and she vaguely recognized the voice as belonging to Rabastan Sr, her cousin, and Ramsey's son, she heard a scoff in reply.

“A small price to pay to keep Scamander out of our business, he's been snooping since Leta was brought here,” her uncle replied, and she felt her ears perk at that. She wondered if it were Theseus or Newt, both were utterly incapable of keeping their noses out of other's businesses, but then her mind swung back to what her cousin said about the elves. Of course, she'd read the article on their bill that passed, but seeing as they were in France, she didn't think it applied, as even though France had its own laws in place, the Lestranges only ever took them as suggestions.

She tucked that information away for later, and continued to listen, realizing that she'd missed out on a bit of what had been said due to her musings.

“I would not underestimate him, grandfather, there is something off about him.” that was Rodolphus, Rabastan Sr's oldest son, but who was he talking about?

“He's young still, only twenty-one, what threat could he be?” scoffed Ramsey, and she realized they were speaking of that Slytherin fellow.

“You were not there, grandfather, back in October, when he duelled Malfoy, he's young, certainly, but I have never seen someone control fiendfyre like that.” control fiendfyre? Who was this boy? She heard her uncle hum in consideration, before changing the subject.

“What of that mudblood barrister he keeps? Radolphous's portrait in the ministry has told me she had visited Leach's portrait a couple of weeks ago, will she be a problem?” Leta noted that they were now speaking of Barrister Granger-Riddle, a girl of only twenty-one who had managed to write the bill to free elves and succeed, and immediately, an idea started churning in her mind, perhaps she could use this.

“Slytherin has claimed her, he all but said it plainly in October, if we touch her, I feel we may make an enemy of him,” drawled Rodolphus, and Leta frowned, if the inflection in his voice insinuated anything, it sounded like he'd already considered the girl's desirability for their 'business'. She would be the perfect candidate, by Lestrange standards, plucky muggleborn with no sense of self-preservation, however, if she had protection from 'Lord Slytherin' then that surely could not bode well for her uncle, and she had no doubt, that if left alone, Granger-Riddle would blow the whole Lestrange operation out of the water, causing a surge of hope to light in her for a moment.

“Watch her, if she gets brave, make sure it cannot be traced back to us,” Ramsey drawled, unfazed, and she heard a sputter of shock from Rabastan Sr.

“Kill her? We've had a few offers for her specifically, very influential, wealthy people who were not pleased with her bill.” Leta restrained a wince, she knew what he meant by “offers”, she just hoped this Lord Slytherin had the foresight to ensure his muggleborn's safety. She heard her uncle sigh and listened in once more.

“Kill her, process her, do whatever you please, just make sure she no longer poses a threat to our operation, and make sure it doesn't displease the uppity snake,” he replied flippantly, and Leta took that as her queue to leave, and she did, quiet as she could.

She pondered her options as she leisurely strolled back to her room, 'coincidentally' the same room her mother had died in, positive that it was her uncle's hand at a jest. Anything she did would implicate her as well, if the Lestrange's went down, then surely she would as well, more than she'd had already. She supposed she could help it along, her family thought her neutralized anyhow, without her magic, but little did they know, her biggest weapon in the hell of the past twenty years, had become her mind.

There was an opportunity that had presented itself to her, clear as day, and she considered how all the pieces fit in together. The elves, Lord Slytherin, and a righteous muggleborn with potentially powerful protection, and the opportunity of acting on the knowledge she knew. If she stuck her neck out to help this girl, would she be able to request a boon from her so-called protector? If this Lord Slytherin was as much of a force as Rodolphus insinuated, what would his control look like in five years? Ten years? How could she make it benefit her? Anyhow, she had to test her theory first, before she got carried away.

She would begin by requesting her elf to attend her, and request said elf to deliver a letter for her without alerting her uncle if the elf agreed, it meant the elf was no longer beholden, but free, if not, she needed to find another avenue. The elves were ordered usually not to speak with her, and normally she never even saw them, but she did know the name of one of them.

“Zaza?” she called out once in her room, and with a pop, she appeared, and for the first time in the year that she'd known her, she was not wearing a dirty pillowcase, but instead, tailored robes. She would not get ahead of herself, but it did look promising.

“Could you deliver a letter for me without notifying anyone?” she asked, and Zaza looked pensive for a moment, before nodding her head, her ears flapping with the gesture, and Leta let out a relieved sigh, it was clearly a massive oversight of her uncles, and she would need to work on her plan more, but this was a start.

“Good, that will be all for now, thank you,” she responded, and Zaza nodded again before popping away.

  
Yes, this just may work after all.

Prewett Place – January 10th, 1947

Albus Dumbledore surveyed the others that sat with him, here in the ancestral home of the Prewett family. As the current leader of the Progressive Party, he called meetings monthly to discuss countermeasures against the Traditional Party, however, this meeting was not of that ilk, this meeting was attended solely by those he deemed trustworthy, and sadly, the entirety of the Progressive Party was not that.

Albus had made many mistakes in his life, chief of them was his betrayal of his family, the second was being unable to break the blood-pact that had neutralized him against Gellert for twenty-years, but another big one was not moving to root the corruption out of his own government. Alas, the war was over, and now was the time to act.

On his immediate sides were the Prewett twins, Lord Fabian to his right, and his brother Gideon to his left, and to his side sat Molly and her husband Arthur. To Fabian's side sat James and Lily Potter, Sirius and Remus Lupin-Black, and further down the table on the right side, he counted Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alistair Moody, and Rufus Scrimgeour. On the left, Robert Abbott, Edgar Bones, Elphias Doge, Dedalus Diggle, Benjy Fenwick, Frank, and Alice Longbottom.

He palmed his wand, feeling the power of the artifact ripple against his skin and knuckles, before casting a sound ward around the table, waiting as everyone quieted down, so that he may address them.

“As you all know, we are in a precarious situation politically,” he started off to a few nods, and it was indeed the case. A devious operation was run under their noses on the daily, and a former student of his had amassed such outrageous political power, that one false move was grounds to be potentially fatal.

His opinion on Tom varied, he knew he was up to something significant, and he felt that it was inherently his fault. Did he know that the boy he'd met in that orphanage almost ten years ago would become the future Lord Slytherin? No, he hadn't, what he'd seen was a troubled, reactive young boy, who allegedly had no trouble hurting others, and he'd thought it better to allow the young Tom Riddle to find his own way, to find friends, to find a niche for himself within the magical world. At least, that's what he told himself to absolve his own guilt for not supporting a child who'd needed it. No, Albus considered Lord Slytherin to be a beast of his own creation, so he felt responsible for reigning him in.

“Griselda Marchbanks has decided she will retire as Chief Warlock in July, I am giving you all notice that I intend to run for it,” he spoke finally, to concerned faces. As Chief Warlock, he could stem the more questionable choices and bills of the Traditional Party, and perhaps, it would give him the leverage to weed out the corrupt seats for younger family members.

“Lord Slytherin has amassed far too many followers, and far too much control to be allowed to continue unchecked,” he explained, and Sirius scoffed, legs crossed over each other and arms folded behind his head.

“With all due respect, Albus, he's what? Twenty-one? And a half-blood to boot! That's not to say he's incapable, but there's no way the Traditional Party would simply hand someone his age and blood-status that much power, besides, didn't he vote in favour of the house-elf bill? How bad could he be?” he asked, and it was Molly who answered.

“Well, the bill was presented by Hermione, who is related to him, he could have voted in a show of familial solidarity,” she pondered, but James shook his head.

“I don't think that's it, I was there and I voted in favour, Hermione looked shocked when she saw his vote, not to mention, Albus may be on to something, as the whole Traditional Party voted in favour, it takes some serious wrangling to get them all to agree on such a progressive bill,” he mused, straightening his glasses on his nose, and Albus pondered that too.

He did not know the nature of the relationship between Lord Slytherin and his muggleborn cousin, as on the surface, from what he'd witnessed while they'd still been a Hogwarts, he seemed to care for her, however, in all his years of observing Tom, he'd never seen genuine emotion from the boy. Knowing this, he couldn't say for certain that whatever the relationship was, that it was genuine enough to sway his political opinion.

“I believe that Lord Slytherin is a great actor, who uses the many opinions and perceptions of his person to his advantage,” he started, gathering their attention again, “and despite his age and experience, he has an uncanny amount of power that would make underestimating him a fatal mistake,” he finished, to a few considering nods.

What they all didn't know, was that what truly had always bothered him about Tom Riddle, was that so much of his attitude, and all of his brilliance, reminded him of another, once charismatic, young wizard who had moved to his aunt's house when he'd been just a teen himself.

That was the crux of the matter, that the young Lord Slytherin reminded him so much of a young Gellert, that ignoring him was simply not something Albus could do. He had known how persuasive Gellert had been at even seventeen, and Tom had been given one of the most powerful seats in the UK's governing body, and if he was as much like Gellert as Albus feared, there was no good that could possibly come of it.

The elder wand sparked in his hand, and Albus was wary, the ancient artifact could almost sense the brewing discord, and it kept him ill at ease, he'd made so very many mistakes, he truly could not afford to make this one, as well.

Albus Dumbledore looked over the few sitting at this table, the very few he was positive he could trust. Sadly, the Scamander brothers would no longer have anything to do with him, for he had done them wrong, for years, and the straw that had broken the thestral's back was his lack of defence of Leta Lestrange.

The elder wand vibrated in his hand as if recognizing the witch's name, and he supposed it would, it had, after all, held her under an _imperius_ for twenty years. Leta was another of his biggest regrets, he knew full well that she had not committed the crimes she'd been charged for, not by her own will, but to explain the existence of the elder wand would be to announce the existence of the deathly hallows to the whole world. No, Leta was a sacrifice that had needed to be made, for the greater good.

That was why he was here, after all, still attempting to lead the Progressive Party, still attempting to do some good, despite his mistakes, and his regrets. He believed wholeheartedly that they could have a balance between light and dark magic, between the good and the bad, and that every magical being could live a full and equal life to each other's peers.

Albus Dumbledore was but a servant for the greater good, and he would continue to be, likely until the day he died.


	2. Chapter 1 - Beetle to Squeeze

Chapter 1 – Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – January 27th, 1947

A loud chime echoed through the grand castle, as classes for the day let out, Leo packed his bag slowly, carefully sliding parchment and quills, so as to not snap or crumple them, and in his periphery, he witnessed someone slide up to his side. He glanced towards them, avoiding eye contact, and saw that it was Maria Munari, another Ravenclaw muggleborn, one that was, in fact, originally apart of the Beauxbatons transfers of 1943.

He assumed she'd decided to stay at Hogwarts because she'd only have been at her previous school for a year and a half. He knew this because he'd researched each of his classmates, especially the muggleborns, as they were the only students he didn't blatantly ignore.

“Yes?” he asked, looking down at his bag, confused as to why she was suddenly speaking to him. He was positive she had her own group of friends, and a boyfriend, not to mention that he was impatient to get to the library, un-enthused at having his free time commandeered.

“We were wondering if you'd like to join our study group since you're always on your own,” she asked politely, Italian accent quite noticeable, and he mentally winced. OWLs were fast approaching, and he sort of wrote them off, because he didn't really care to stay in Britain or the magical world once he'd graduated. He thought about it for a moment, he _would_ need to pass the bloody things in order to graduate in the first place, however, he did not like the idea of giving up or changing his plans for the day.

“That's kind of you to ask, but I do have a personal project to work on today, would it be alright if I joined your group another day?” he asked, and she seemed pensive for a moment, before nodding and leaving.

Leo sighed in relief, it wasn't that he was inherently unsociable, he just had trouble becoming comfortable with new people, it had taken a whole lot of will and effort to even just bring himself to Riddle manor that fateful day when his father had beat him and left him for dead. He winced again, that was not a good memory, and he did not like recalling it, especially since he was essentially the reason Helen was dead.

With that, he was reminded of what he wanted to do, no, what he needed to do, so swinging his bag over onto his shoulder, he left the classroom and head for the library. Once there, he headed over to the archives, for the project he'd started back in October after Hermione had gotten her bill passed because he'd witnessed the commotion caused by it.

“A muggleborn did what?”

“Wait, she's muggleborn?”

“The audacity of this muggleborn,”

These were variations of the phrases he'd heard in response to her success, which struck him curiously, rather than reactions of the subject of said bill, why was her blood status more important than the freedom of a whole species of being? He wanted (needed?) some kind of answer to a question he wasn't even sure of its exact wording, and felt the only way he was going to get that was through research, specifically of muggleborns.

So, he started with bound records of attendance, dating back to the 990s, to when the school had opened initially, and in his charmed, never-ending notebook (that Hermione had gifted to him) he picked a researched every single muggleborn that had attended Hogwarts, into a neat list.

He recorded their grades, how many classes they took, what careers they went into, as well as when (and how) they died. So far, his research has been inconclusive, he was on the year 1024, and the majority of muggleborns either died before finishing school, disappeared after graduating, presumably to retreat back into the non-magical world, or stayed in generally low-level positions before dying of completely preventable diseases. He also tried to factor in religious practices, if they were mentioned, and discrimination hitherto. Though a part of him considered that it was only inconclusive due to the era and that perhaps a pattern would eventually reveal itself, he did think he was on the right track though.

At six in the evening, he put his research away to head for dinner, with the intention of eating quickly and then returning to start his homework for the day. He'd only stopped thanks to the watch Hermione had charmed for him, that chimed to remind him to eat, or stretch his legs, because sometimes he became too focused on his task at hand, and would forget.

When he first started this project, it had taken a lot of effort not to dive into perceived conspiracy theories, instead, a part of him simply wanted to know why muggleborns even existed, so far, there wasn't any conclusive theory, and it worried him, because how could nobody know after thousands of years?

He took a turn and slammed into someone, and he instinctively hugged his bag as he fell onto his backside, because he really didn't want his quills to break, or parchment to crumple.

“Well, if it isn't the forgotten mudblood,” a snide voice sneered, that cracked with pubescence, and Leo looked up to find Hector Burke Jr, a Slytherin year-mate, and all-around racist piece of rubbish, at least, in Leo's humble opinion. If he was even honest, Leo was under the impression the other boy was simply jealous, but that was because he constantly brought up “Lord Slytherin's” (aka Tom's) sponsorship of him.

Burke was one of the first people in the school to “introduce” Leo to the word “mudblood,” which he still didn't understand the need for the word, as in his self-study, he'd come to find the term “muggle” to have originally been a derogatory term for a non-magical person, so though it was the proper term for people like him, and it was expected that he use it, wasn't “muggleborn” technically already derogatory enough?

“Are you listening to me?!” Burke snapped, kicking his foot and Leo cocked his head at it, still sitting on the floor with his bag in his arms, he made to stand again, dusting off his robes.

“No, I forgot you were even here,” he answered honestly, he did that a lot, and he'd been told that it was rude, but he couldn't help it, he just got stuck on a train of thought and tended to ignore his surroundings. Not that he “forgot-forgot”, in actuality, but more that his mind didn't think the other boy's presence as important anymore, or at least, not compared to whatever current train of thought he was thinking.

“You're so weird, no wonder nobody likes you,” Burke sneered, and Leo adjusted his bag back onto his shoulder, shrugging nonchalantly.

“That's alright, I don't like 'nobody' either, you're all really loud and annoying,” he replied, nonplussed, before walking away. He snapped up a _protego_ up at his back, just in case, like Hermione had taught him, and continued his way to dinner.

He kept telling himself that it was only two and a half years more, and then he could get them both out of Britain, he could get her away from Tom. He worried his lip, and fidgeted his fingers, he hoped it wouldn't be too late, during the Winter Hols, she'd been awfully attached to him (enough for Leo, who didn't normally catch other's people behaviours easily, to notice). It's like she couldn't see how she'd changed, or see how Tom treated her as if she wasn't a person, but a pet and Leo knew all about being treated as a sub-human.

He didn't like recalling his childhood, as he was ignored often, mostly because he didn't answer on time, or at all, and he had never played well with other children his age. More often than not, he'd been left alone in his room, most tutors or caretakers giving up because he simply wasn't retaining anything they taught him. Even now, he didn't keep much of what his professors taught, and he learned better by reading through his textbooks and compiling his notes into neat lists.

His father had always been distant, who'd never bothered to talk to him, and he'd never known his mother, so he'd had to learn to be okay on his own. That was until he'd met Helen and Hermione, who'd had taught him that it hadn't been alright, and though it had certainly been a new experience to be patiently listened to, he found that now that he had it, to be treated like a person, he wasn't willing to let it go, and he wouldn't let Hermione let it go, either.

He hoped he'd find something in his research, something to hold onto, something to bring attention to stop the mistreatment, and if he couldn't, then he would find somewhere safe for them to go.

Diagon Alley – February 1st, 1947

The alley was bustling with people, now that children were back at school, or, well, they'd been back for about a month now, and though Hermione had been glad to have Leo back in the castle for the winter hols, she'd had to put her investigating on hold for the duration. Once he'd gone back, she'd scoured the Slytherin library from top to bottom (at least all that she could read and translate) for mention of 'le plafond de verre', and she hadn't found anything. She knew it had been a long shot, of course, as everything in the library was dated to pre-1400s, it was simply possible that whatever 'the glass ceiling' was, it just hadn't existed then.

That just meant she had to become a little bit more creative on her information extractions, and lucky for her, she had just the beetle to squeeze.

So, here she was, disillusioned and sneaking her way through Diagon Alley like a common criminal. After the warning that Minister Leach had given her, she was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, because clearly, whoever was behind...whatever it was, really didn't want to be discovered, and was willing to keep it that way.

She was in a clearly precarious situation, she'd presumably stumbled upon some grand injustice, that nobody was doing anything about, due to danger, exposure to crime, what have you, that she was absolutely in the right position to uncover, but it was undeniably a dangerous undertaking. Not to mention that she had no way (besides her current plan) to go about finding information, without putting herself in the spotlight, therefore putting herself in danger, because she didn't exactly know what she was looking for.

She was not a ministry employee, so it wasn't like she could waltz her way into the Ministry Archives without request or appointment, and she was hesitant to involve anyone in this conspiracy, especially considering how dangerous it was. As well, a small, tiny part of her questioned who she could trust, and though she was a bit ashamed of the thought, she couldn't help but think it.

In her mind, she didn't understand how discrimination could continue unchecked for years, centuries even unless it's been specifically allowed through the inaction of others. She was still relatively new in the UK, and she still questioned the methods and traditions of those born here, she couldn't help it, perhaps if the plot hadn't been so nefarious, she could have ignored it, but now that she saw the subtle micro-aggressive proof, it was all she could think about.

'Le Plafond de Verre' suggested French origins, which disappointed her, as she'd thought so highly of the magical governance of her previous school's country; but it gave no suggestion as to what it actually was, and really it could be anything, like a secret underground crime ring, or a physical place, as suggested by its name. Then again, it could also be a figurative theory or idea, like maybe it was a glass ceiling that held muggleborns down, allowing them to see beyond, but to never advance, and the more she thought about it, the more it worried her if she kept digging, what would she find?

Would she find evidence of a connection to witches and wizards she respected? Like her friends, or their families? Would she find evidence of Tom's association? She'd already considered it, of course, but she didn't think he would be, as he was very transparent with his actions, deliberately to keep his name clean of any critiques against his person, he was very aware of people's constant perception of him. She twisted her step to avoid a mother with a small child in her arms, and leaned against the wall outside of Madam Malkin's, beside the window, and looked up at the office of the Daily Prophet across the alley from her.

Did she feel she was being a touch too cautious? Perhaps a bit, but if it kept her alive and unnoticed, could she really consider her actions to be too much? Seeing a gap in the crowd, she left her spot against the wall and swerved her way through it, and made her way into the building, taking the stairs to the right to the third floor, where the gossip columnists usually had desks and offices. She knew this because she looked into it prior to making this venture.

She took her time, and when she finally arrived at Skeeter's office, she entered, closed the door, and set a sound ward around the parameter of the office, relieved that the witch was alone. Rita jumped but relaxed into a barely held sneer when Hermione undid her disillusionment.

“You know, I do have appropriate appointment hours,” she drawled, inspecting her nails, and Hermione sat down, crossing her legs and refrained from rolling her eyes.

“Yes, I'm aware, but it probably isn't a good idea being seen breaking my own restraining order on you,” she retorted, to which she heard the other witch vaguely scoff 'if only' under her breath. She quirked an eyebrow at her, daring her to say it louder, but Skeeter only pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in response.

“What can I help you with, Miss Granger-Riddle?” she finally gave in, asking in an exasperated tone, and if Hermione didn't know any better, she could almost swear Skeeter had a begrudging bit of respect for her, she could be very wrong though.

“I've come across the term that I haven't been able to find any information on, and researching it has been difficult,” she began, and Rita cocked an eyebrow, unimpressed, “what do you know of 'le plafond de verre'?” she asked, and before the other witch could correct her expression to remain neutral, her eyes widened, and she inhaled sharply, leading Hermione to believe that she did, in fact, know something.

Skeeter shook her head, faking sympathies, and Hermione felt fury coil in her stomach. It was people like this that allowed for injustices to fly freely, cowards like this that encouraged mass discrimination against what was generally an ethnic group in the magical world.

“You know something, and need I remind you what secrets I have over your head,” Hermione spoke lowly, tone frigid, and Rita had the audacity to scoff at her.

“Let me tell you something, Miss Granger-Riddle, you may have a death wish, but I certainly do not, and you can threaten me with Azkaban all you want, but even that is preferable to dying,” she doubled down, but two could play at that game.

“What makes you think your life is infinitely more valuable than any of the many muggleborns affected by this?” she began coolly, “do you think your freedom or life has any value to me, with all of your cowardice, in the face of hundreds of others?” she asked, tilting her head at the other witch.

“It would be a shame if I lead whoever it is right to you, regardless of whether you tell me anything,” she spoke with a fake bit of politeness, “I have nothing to lose in any of this, though the question begs, what is more, important to you? Your guaranteed un-involvement, provided I remain uncaught, or me dragging you into it because I have been?” she asked, only for Rita to sputter at her.

“Are you threatening me?” she asked, horrified, and Hermione only gave a genial smile.

“Yes, I am, now, the decision is yours,” she spoke plainly, and Rita sat there flabbergasted, looking like she swallowed a lemon.

“I don't know much,” she started, and Hermione cocked an eyebrow, “I'm telling the truth, I don't know who exactly is behind it, or what it signifies, only that it's a deep, deep, deep underground auction,” she spoke carefully, and Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“An auction for what?” she asked, feeling like she wasn't going to like the answer, and Rita looked almost apologetic.

  
“People.”

Alcazar Deslizan – Later that day  
  


Hermione sat at her desk, tumbler filled with firewhiskey, her head in one hand, with her elbows supported upon the surface, and the other cradling her glass. She'd just gotten back from the Daily Prophet office, and speaking with Rita Skeeter, though she hadn't gone to the Aurors, too shocked at the information she'd been told. When she'd considered that 'the glass ceiling' had been some type of underground crime syndicate, she hadn't considered prostitution, or worse, trafficking, and she was still reeling from it.

This was utter insanity, how was she supposed to take this down? Who were the victims? Who started this and who benefited from it? There were so many questions and she felt she had nowhere to seek answers from, she felt, officially, like she'd opened the lid to Pandora's Box, but there was no hope at the bottom.

Was it just in the UK? Did it encompass more countries? Did the ICW know about this, and was there anyone doing anything about it? She downed her drink, wincing at the burning sensation, and took a couple of breaths to steady and calm herself. She was getting ahead of herself, she needed to shrink her sphere of influence, she needed to brainstorm an idea that she was personally capable of, as a barrister.

She shuffled things around until she had a blank scrap of parchment and a quill in her hand, and began scribbling down a few bubbles of information that she currently knew, and connected them to each other. Victims were likely muggles and muggleborns, offenders were likely purebloods, but who? Sacred 28? Was it a combination of these families, or a single family responsible?

Her original plan had been to create a registry of magical births that included muggleborns, inspired as she was by Leo's case, but put that information in the hands of the schools, rather than the government. She'd hit a snag when she realized that Hogwarts was government-run, but now with this new information, if she went through with her bill, would this just be helping that 'organization' find victims? She felt truly stumped and disgusted, and she felt she needed help, but who could she trust? Who didn't have stakes in this awful practice? Furthermore, should she tell her friends?

The majority of them were purebloods, so surely they'd be safe? Géraldine had a right to know about this, as it could potentially affect her and Jean Pierre, but would it also put her in as much danger? Who was she to make that decision for them? She briefly thought of Harry's mother, Lily Evans-Potter, she was generally a well known and successful muggleborn, perhaps she could speak to her, so jotted her name down, as well as the pros and cons of speaking to the rest of her friends.

If she wrote an anti-discrimination bill, would it be voted in? It seemed inconspicuous, but as a muggleborn herself, it may come across as self-serving and transparent, not to mention it may just shine the spotlight that she was onto them, whoever they were.

She felt her eyes burn with frustration and unshed tears, and a headache began to make itself known. It was clear that the whole system was set up so that it couldn't be stopped by anyone who actually cared for others, she felt self-righteous in her anger, but also so very isolated in the helplessness of the situation.

She abandoned her paper and went to shower, tying her hair up into a high puff to avoid it getting wet, and was minutely glad she didn't have to climb precariously in and out of claw-foot tubs anymore. The washrooms were a new installment that Tom had implemented upon claiming the castle and name, as the last time the castle was in use back in the 1300s, back when the hygiene of Europeans and Anglo-Saxons were in serious question, and chamber pots were all the rage.

Hermione shuddered, growing up in the Caribbean, the general consensus of Europeans was not the greatest, especially colonial Europeans, considering they'd decimated entire civilizations with diseases they'd brought over. So, she could only imagine the hygiene of the last occupants of the castle had been, cringing at the outlandish rumour she'd heard that they used to defecate in their robes and vanish the evidence, hoping that that wasn't the case.

She washed quickly and wrapped a towel around herself as she got ready to wrap her hair, it was day two on her twist-out, so she had a couple of more days until she needed to wash it, so she grabbed her Sleakeazy's hair oil, and brought it back to her desk.

She sat down in her towel, and brought her knees to her chest, running a delicate layer of the oil in her hands, before gently patting her curls and massaging her scalp. She studied her scribbles absentmindedly as she began separating her hair into large random sections, and began twisting.

If she told Jaismine, perhaps she could look into the archives in the ministry for her? She felt if she asked Harry or Ron, they would be too obvious about it, not that they couldn't be inconspicuous, but more that they were both from notoriously 'blood-traitor-ish' families. Géraldine was out of the question, the more she thought about it, the more she didn't want to shine this dangerous situation on her and her brother, but Jas was a Slytherin, and that might provide her with enough benefit of the doubt by onlookers.

She needed to talk to her friend, there would be no manipulating her into doing something she didn't want to, Hermione bit her lip, unsure of how to proceed.

She heard the door to Tom's room open and close, and quickly moved to stuff her papers and notes into her desk drawer, pulling out, instead, her small box of pins as he opened her door. She glanced at him briefly, heart in her throat, and hope she didn't come across as suspicious, before turning to pull her mirror closer to pin the ends of her twists against her scalp.

She watched him in the mirror as he came up behind her and cupped the back of her neck, and began kneading the pressure points in her shoulders, his hands were cool and she felt herself relax for the first time all day. He said nothing as he waved her hands away and reached for her box of pins, continuing her work until all the strands were secured, and she wasn't surprised that he was rather apt at it, as he'd watched her do it probably a hundred times before.

When he finished, she checked it in the mirror before nodding, satisfied, before grabbing her scarf that had been hanging off the back of her chair and began wrapping her head. When she finished, she stood up and looked to him, and it was almost unnerving to recognize the satisfied gleam in his eye, the indulgent twitch to his lip.

She couldn't help but think of what she'd discovered today, as she reached for him and he took her hand, pulling her into him. Did Tom know about 'The Glass Ceiling'? She felt something curdle in her stomach at the idea that he'd ever take part in anything so horrifying, and she ignored the snide whisper in her head that told her he was absolutely capable of it, that he had been honest with her in his lack of consideration for muggleborns.

She laid her head on his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist, was she foolish for hoping he'd changed? Or that he could possibly just not know about it? Was optimism a weakness? The logical corner of her brain told her that in this situation, yes, and that she was being willfully blind to the reality of who she'd consented to be with. A large part of her wanted to ask him about it, wanted to rely and depend on him, as she'd done when her mother had been killed, but the idea of how many lives were at stake, how many people were affected, stopped her.

This was not about her comfort, this was about the freedom to live comfortable lives of potentially every single person like herself, and she knew, oh, but did she know, the crowd that Tom surrounded himself with.

No, it wasn't safe to speak to him about it.

She closed her eyes and relaxed as he ran a hand down her spine, loosening the towel that had been her only source of modesty, until it dropped to the ground and she stood in his arms, bare. She lifted her head for a kiss and began picking at the buttons of his robes, sliding them off his shoulders when she was done.

She would play her part, the part that was expected of her, to Tom, to her place in this world, and all the while, she had every intention of ripping it apart from the inside, and so help her God, she was going to shatter that glass ceiling, even if it killed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, here's the first chapter, hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Disclaimer: I decided to add the 'Black Hermione Granger' tag, though I've been iffy about doing it, and didn't do it for the last story because I didn't want to erase or take away from stories where she's 100% black, because I acknowledge that she's biracial in this series. However, I know I like searching the tag, because I'm a huge fan of Black Hermione, and I know it's one of the more well-known tags, so I decided to go for it, so this is my disclaimer of acknowledgment for those who are here from searching that tag, if they do decide to take a gander at my lil series.
> 
> P.S I will always take shots at JKR, especially for that washroom "info" she dropped a couple of years ago...like, ma'am, wat de heck???? (bad enough that she's a TERF, but imma not get into that rn)


	3. Chapter 2 - What in Merlin's Tit?

Chapter 2 – Ministry of Magic – February 9th, 1947

Tom straightened his plum Wizengamot robes, with the gold 'W' over the left side of his chest, and the insignia of Slytherin on his arm, as he took his seat in the voting chamber. Today, a motion would either be passed or rejected, specifically on whether to allow Hogwarts to specifically celebrate other religions, besides the Celtic Faith.

He didn't know for certain, but he felt that this had Dumbledore written all over it, and he'd have to give the eccentric old wizard some credit, as it was a smart move. It was a point of contention that Hogwarts was not self-governed, like the local schools scattered throughout the UK, and with the position of Chief Warlock coming to a vacancy, there was no doubt in Tom's mind that this move was to cushion the deputy headmaster's consideration for the position.

The way schools worked in the magical world was odd, but in Tom's opinion, efficient, for governments to be apart and have a representative seat within the ICW, a relatively new institution, as it was only three hundred years old, they must submit an official school to put on record.

These schools that were put on record, were given certain advantages, like the opportunity to offer international standardized testing that carried over a witch or wizard's credentials should they immigrate to another country, which would offer them advancements in their new home in terms of job prospects, these tests were OWLs and NEWTs.

Unfortunately, within the ICW, governments were sectioned into both countries and landmasses, which was why there were smaller governing bodies for everyday decisions like infrastructure, taxes, and the census for Northern/Southern Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and England, but an encompassing UK governing body that consisted of laws, Wizengamot, and International Cooperation.

Every country had a representative seat, but those seats were sectioned off by another representative for the landmass, and those landmasses were the UK, Western and Eastern Europe, North and South America, East and North Asia, and finally, Africa, to prevent countries from all squabbling with each other. Making the schools registered: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, Illvermorny, Castelobruxo, Mahoutokoro, Durmstrang, Koldovsteretz, and Uagadou the bigger more infamous schools within the magical world (but by no means the only ones).

All magical children who were added to their government census' were told of these benefits and parents decided if they wanted their child to attend the ICW approved (usually) boarding school, or if they preferred their child to go to a local day school, which most of the local schools tended to be. Children without parental guidance were automatically admitted to the ICW represented the school as an official ward of the landmass government (as Tom had been, which was probably why he felt it was efficient, as he was probably biased). This, however, meant the landmass government had a direct hand in how that listed school was run, and Hogwarts, being one of the oldest and bigger schools, had been chosen (despite the vexation of every headmaster since the ICW's conception).

This was a clever idea on Dumbledore's part (if he was behind it) because, as they moved forward into the twentieth century, more witches and wizards emigrated to different countries, Britain, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales being of that list. This meant the number of people who celebrated the Celtic Faith decreased with every passing decade, as immigration sky-rocketed, bringing in different faiths from all around the world. With Hogwarts being the school with the highest population of students, and the Chief Warlock position being a democratic election of the people, similar to Minister for Magic, it was a smart move.

In a move to understand better how he should be expected to vote and keep the peace, Tom had visited each of his knights of differing faiths for their opinion on the matter, as well as all those alike that were in the Traditional Party. He concluded that he was voting against the motion today, as almost all of them preferred instead to have no religion in the school, rather than all differing faiths added, and of course, that decision would keep those that still celebrated the Celtic faith satisfied, so Tom was content, for now.

He surveyed the now full seats of the Wizengamot, eyes roving passed the stoic expression of Lord Black, to the purposeful avoidance of Lucius Malfoy. He felt a smirk tug at his lips but restrained it, despite all the medical attention that the most accomplished healers money could buy, Draco Malfoy had ended up disfigured for life from his duel with Tom.

'Honestly,' he scoffed in his mind, he felt he went easy on the ferret. Draco’s insult against his person was not anything _anyone_ should allow to slide, and it was insulting that the Malfoys had expected him to lay down and accept it.

He also didn't appreciate the insult against Hermione, the younger Malfoy had been blinded by his indoctrination of Hogwarts, while Tom already knew he wasn't doing anything truly scandalous, not by the cultures' standards. Lord Lucius Malfoy was quite careful around him to this day, and Abraxas had eventually come around when Tom had pointed out his glaring privilege, though the other wizard was lucky Tom didn't turn his ire onto him, as he was the reason his brother was in the position he was, what with his probably complaining about Hermione.

He turned his attention to the Progressive Party, and back to the seats closest to him, he felt a hand on his shoulder and snapped his attention to find Ramsey Lestrange, a much older wizard who gave him a brief greeting, before heading further to his seat.

Tom did not appreciate the informal approach and watched the older wizard as he returned nods and greetings, all those directed at him in clear respect, and he narrowed his eyes. Wizards like Ramsey did not act haphazardly, so his little shoulder pat had had a purpose, he scanned the crowd and found Dumbledore gazing at him with a disturbed expression, crossed with disappointment, and he restrained the sneer that almost made it's way to his lip before diverting his attention.

Very few people knew of the Lestrange 'business', those who did had some form of hand in it, or were clients themselves, so what was the point of Ramsey's gesture? Where did Dumbledore fall on the scale? He was broken out of his thoughts by Chief Warlock Marchbanks's gavel hitting the podium and the session beginning. He would come back to that train of thought another time, so he tucked it away, for now, his day was spoken for, as after he was finished here, he would be meeting Hermione in Martinique, as it was Helen's birthday and she wanted to visit her parents' grave.

The vote went fast, and the motion was rejected with the Minister for Magic's vote, as it had almost come to a draw, equally between Progressive, Swing, and Traditional. No doubt it would make it's way back in a couple of months with a few amendments, at least, with that close of a win. For now, he didn't need to expend any more energy towards the venture, and he closed his eyes momentarily, exhausted with the posturing that politics required of him.

He opened them again, standing with the rest of the governing body, nodding his greetings to other Traditional Party members, witches and wizards still wary of him and not showing him the respect he deserved. It came in waves, he found, their respect and good judgment, coming and going with how he acted in their favour.

Did he want to slit their throats where they stood? Yes, a part of him felt that he'd much more prefer their fear than their respect, but it was the benefits of not acting out of rash violence that would make the future power he would hold so much sweeter.

They could smile to his face and drag his name through the dirt in privacy if they are so pleased, and he would posture and preen, being the ever agreeable Lord Slytherin, and then they would be far too entangled in his web before they realized that they were never the spiders themselves, but the flies. He could be patient, he would take the subtle disrespect directed at him, and when the time was right, he would return it a hundredfold, until they began to weep for the old days, for when he had been agreeable.

His operations were going smoothly, he'd met with a muggle gang leader yesterday to close a deal on the shipment of firearms, the family business ever so popular, even during this post-war era, and he almost begrudgingly had to give muggles credit, at least they were consistent in their violence and need to kill each other.

In a few weeks, he would be meeting with a representative from a family-based conglomerate in Sicily, opening an account for them, and it reminded him of his dearly departed cousin. It had been little more than a year since she had been killed, and with her death, he'd dropped any interest in her ploys, though he thought that perhaps now was a time to trace down those loose ends.

When he thought of Helen, at least for the past year, he had been satisfied because it had been the final nail in the (almost) proverbial coffin that had driven Hermione right into his arms. It was something he was grateful that had worked in his favour, but at the same time, he almost felt...regret, at her death, since she had, after all, changed his destiny. Helen had been the catalyst for the explosion of fortune that he's been reaping since 1943, not to mention, she'd been a magnificent specimen of a muggle, one he had to applaud for her grace and tact, so much so, that his willingness to ensure her dignified burial had been genuine.

There were times he'd ever considered her death to be such a waste, as he did not doubt that she would have eventually made the most worthy of adversaries. There were times where he caught Hermione with her mind utterly shut to him, and her eyes so much like her mother's, that he was almost giddy at the idea of her finally stepping into the true ruthless brilliance he knew she was capable of, which had been so very out of reach during her grief.

Oh, she was still very much trapped in his grasp, he had no intention of letting that change, but the possibility of her challenging him, and the possibility of moulding that tenacity to his favour, made him very eager. Not, of course, that he didn't enjoy their moments of domesticity, or the almost adoring shine that crossed her expression when she thought he wasn't looking, he just wanted more, he wanted to consume all of her, be her entire world.

He said his clipped farewells and began heading towards the lifts, changing his Wizengamot attire to plain, nondescript black, with a flick of his wand. Hermione would already be in Martinique, as she'd left earlier this morning, at around five, while it was now nine. He would be meeting her there, at her old residence, so with little fanfare, he boarded the lift that would take him to level eight, the Department of Magical Transportation.

He was almost annoyed at still having to rely on the ministry for travel, as it meant that his privacy was non-existent, which had been evident with the article back in September, with his trip to Greece. That had both amused and enraged him, which had been the reason he'd selected that intern for his third Horcrux, to scratch that itch in him that leaned towards violence to solve his problems, it had been a rash decision, but he'd also been correct that hardly a hiccup had been raised at the muggleborn's disappearance. Anyhow, eventually he'd make his own portkeys, or research a way to apparate between countries when he wasn't more susceptible to the consequences of his actions, but for now, he'd put up with the Ministry.

It only took another ten minutes until he'd apparated into the courtyard of Hermione's old home, he noticed that it seemed neater, with the weeds gone, and a colour charm sprucing up the outside yellow concrete and orange roofing tiles. He walked into the dwelling to see it cleaned of all dust, and the radio was on, with a mix of street foods on the kitchen table, but no witch, that he could tell.

He removed his robes to reveal the same pair of white trousers and tunic shirts she'd purchased for him the first time they'd been there, and he smirked at the memory. He went up the stairs to check her room, noting all the dust was gone and it was clean with the window open to let in some air, however humid.

He glanced at the bed, since Helen's burial here, they'd come to visit a handful of times throughout the last year, and on the second time, they'd decided to toss her old one, and a larger bed had been added instead, for the times they spent here, as she refused to even enter her parent's room or take it for herself, though, he was sure she had her reasons, so he didn't bother to question her on it.

Frowning when he didn't find her there either, he stepped towards the window and froze when he heard a laugh, unmistakably hers. He exited the room and descended the stairs, using his wand for a quick 'point me', which led outside and into the small alleyway to the main street. He followed it but stopped before revealing himself at the sound of a deep, distinctly male voice.

Feeling an unpleasant sensation curl in his gut, he disillusioned himself and watched from the shadow of the alleyway. She was standing there, speaking to a tall, broad-shouldered black man, and Tom decided to study him for a minute. He could not see his face, as his back was turned to him, but he held a youthful countenance, with firm, strong arms, dark brown skin, closely cropped woolly black hair, and an impossibly deep voice. They were chatting in a rapid exchange of French, his eyes glided to her, and he was struck for a moment, how beautiful she was.

Of course, though, she'd always been, and that wasn't because he'd chosen her. Had they been strangers (he scoffed at the absurdity) he would have recognized her as so. Under the Caribbean sun, it seemed as if she'd gotten darker in the scant hours she'd been here, the UK winters dulling the warmth of her brown complexion, and although she'd never be considered fair, she glowed under the sun as if it were made for her.

Her brown unruly coils suddenly had glints of gold peppered throughout, and her smile was wide with her teeth straight and white, allowing for the barest of dimples to show themselves on her cheeks. Her nose, which had a Nubian shape, scrunched playfully, and her big brown eyes squinted at the man.

Perhaps she was not the willowy, graceful beauty preferred in Europe, of lighter-skinned women, like Bellatrix, with her tall, elegant stature, delicate nose, lips, and dark silky hair, but that did not diminish that she was positively radiant in her own way. He felt a purr of satisfaction in his chest because she was his, and she always would be.

He undid his disillusionment and approached them, noting as her eyes immediately went to him and she grinned, she turned to introduce him to her companion. When the other man had turned, Tom had been correct that he seemed youthful, as he looked about their age.

“Tom, this is Cécile, we grew up together, he lives in the house right next door,” she began, and Tom held out his hand, gripping Cécile's tightly, nodding in greeting.

“Cécile, c'est Tom,” she introduced briefly, and he almost snorted at the lack of descriptors. He knew, of course, that muggles would not be nearly so accepting of their relationship as magical folk were, but it also went suggested that she possibly just didn't know what to call him, something he'd have to think on. He responded a greeting to the man, and then turned his attention to Hermione, not missing the way Cécile solely had eyes for her either, fury climbing up his spine.

“Are you ready?” he asked, and she nodded, she waved her farewell, and he waited for her to walk before following her back through the alley and into the house. He closed the door behind him with finality, a niggling sense of discontent and anger roiling inside of him, clawing at his chest. She had nothing to call him, and that was a problem certainly, but the idea of her deciding that they had nothing, and pursuing other relationships sent him into a cold fury like no other, and she turned to him, eyes wary as if she knew.

“Tom-” she began, and he crowded her until her knees hit the armrest of the couch, causing her to fall back onto the cushions, but he didn't touch her, instead he just watched her, admiring how her hair fell around her head like a halo.

“Do you know what you did?” he asked, tapping her knee that was still hitched over the armrest, and she held her breath, looking at him before nodding slightly.

“You can't be angry that I speak to men other than you,” she spoke softly, a strip of light from the window fell across her face as she titled her head to address him, highlighting only one of her eyes. He tilted his in return.

“You're right,” he began, and he watched as she let out of a shuttering breath, closing her eyes in relief, before jerking her legs open. Her eyes snapped back to his as his hand reached forward to cup her mound.

  
“I think you just need to be reminded of who this belongs to.”

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – February 16th, 1947

Jaismine walked through the halls of her Alma mater, hand nervously holding the missive sent by Dumbledore. If she didn't physically look as confused as currently felt, then clearly she was doing an alright job at acting impartial. She had received this summons from Dumbledore a few days ago, and she had no idea why, as he had not been her head of house, she had no camaraderie with the professor, and she'd never spoken more than two words to him that hadn't been academically concerned.

So, here she was, walking along the fourth corridor, dodging children in their civvies, as it was a Sunday, heading towards the office of the deputy headmaster for a four o'clock appointment for tea.

She let her mind wander on what it could be about, she knew her uncle Kingsley was a close confidant of Dumbledore's, so maybe it had something to do with that? She'd been a fully-fledged Unspeakable for a couple of months now, but it couldn't be that because, well, self-explanatory. She paused in her steps because a thought hadn't occurred to her before and it just flashed into her mind now, what if it was about Hermione? And by extension, Riddle?

She mentally grimaced, her thoughts of the two were not a place she liked to dwell on, stemming from her feelings for Hermione, another difficult entity of its own that she didn't like to dwell on. She continued walking, locs swaying behind her, but she couldn't stop the direction of her thoughts. She had learned early on in Hogwarts not to underestimate Tom Riddle, being in the same year and the same house as him, allowed her to be privy to the social hierarchy within Slytherin house, and the utterly impossible way that Riddle had been rocketed from the bottom tier to the top (though, in retrospect, it made sense now).

Jaismine, as she was, was not a complicated person, she liked it when things made sense. If there was a rule, she followed it (within reason), if there was homework, she did it, if she was born with a body she didn't connect with, she changed it, and when her classmate showed a tendency for both brilliance and violence, she kept her distance.

That's what she'd done, up until fifth year when the entirety of Slytherin house had been “encouraged” by Slughorn to take part in the 'Knights of Walpurgis' duelling club, and it was there that she'd witnessed Tom Riddle destroy anyone who questioned or ridiculed him. It was after that, and the following years, that she noticed Riddle's propensity for control, she was observant enough to see that nothing good happened to those who opposed him. Perhaps some would think that cowardly, she thought it made her smart, you live to see another day by not seeking out bad fortune, and all that.

Then Hermione happened, and when her name had been called during that fateful sorting years ago, she'd almost cringed in sympathy. There was a witch who would have Riddle's attention on their person immediately, and not know the gravity of their situation. Curiously, she'd watched for months as Riddle's attention zeroed in on the pretty French transfer student, all because she had the same name as him, and the more she watched, the more she admired her, especially after she put Abraxas Malfoy in his place with the back of her hand.

A part of her felt it was almost too coincidental that Ron broke up with Hermione just as Riddle's regard for her seemed absolute, but she'd had no proof to lobby accusations. So, she kept her mouth shut, and when the crying witch barrelled into her that day in the library, she'd decided to do something completely unlike herself, and that was to get involved, so she became Hermione's friend, unknowing of the path of hurt it would lead her down.

The first time she realized she might have a crush on her friend was that day they first visited Angelina's shop, and Hermione shot a smile at her while petting the silk moth in Angelina's hand, and it had been instantly an 'oh' moment. Honestly, Jaismine had been afraid of the feelings she'd discovered, so she had tried to put some space between them, having no idea if Hermione had even the slightest preference for witches, she told herself she hadn't wanted to ruin their friendship, which was a load of tripe when she thought about it now.

In retrospect, she wished she had acted back then, she wished she'd had the bravery of a Gryffindor, and had just kissed her. She foolishly liked to imagine that maybe it would have put Riddle off, that the witch he wanted, liked other witches, but her logical and observant mind takes over and she realizes that it would have never been enough.

After the disappearance of Kai (another event that was far too coincidental, yet too tragic for her to spit on with her theories) she realized there would never be a way to shelter her friend from a wizard like Tom Riddle, and she'd been correct, even when she'd had to reject Hermione, who then had been broken by the death of her mother, and struggling to stand again. It was true she hadn't wanted to get hurt, nor did she want to die, but also, she had no way of knowing what Riddle would do to Hermione should she reject him again, so she rejected Hermione's (finally) reciprocated feelings, and she'd hated herself for it, and she hated Riddle more than anything for forcing that reality upon them.

For the last year, she watched as her friend drew closer and closer to that bastard, regardless of how often she and the rest of their friends tried to tug her back. She looked at the missive in her hand, perhaps...perhaps this was the helping hand she needed, that Hermione needed.

She stood outside Albus Dumbledore's office door, and thought, then again, maybe she was getting ahead of herself. She looked down at her watch, noting that it was still five minutes to four, but knocked anyway, a yearning for something curling in her chest.

It was once she was sitting in front of the deputy headmaster, teacup, and saucer in hand that she turned her questioning gaze towards him. Dumbledore chuckled as if understanding her confusion.

“I can see the questions in your eyes Miss Shacklebolt, but more than that, I see your suspicion, which means you have an idea as to why I've asked you here,” he began amiably, and she took in his emerald green robes, decorated with gold stars, that offset the lingering traces of auburn in his hair and beard.

“Sir?” she asked calmly, taking a steady sip of her tea to keep her guard up, either her occlumency shields were failing, or he was just incredibly perceptive, either way, it did not mean he had the right to ask any of the questions she suspected she might be here about, which meant he was hoping she'd divulged.

“I'm unsure if you know, Miss Shacklebolt, but there is a deep rot in the world we know today, one that I, unfortunately, have come to suspect a certain powerful player may have a hand in, and unfortunately, once again, there are no persons close to this player except-”

“-Hermione, I'm not a fool, sir, you have some vendetta against Lord Slytherin -or, Riddle, and Hermione is close to him, and I am close to her, what I don't know is what you expect of me if I do not know what I'm even looking for,” she spoke curtly if he was going to suggest that she manipulate her friend to get to Riddle than he had another thing coming.

“I see your indignation, what if I told you that the threat itself was against Miss Granger-Riddle the most?” he asked somberly, and her eyes traced his expression for any sign of duplicity, what did he mean by Hermione being the one threatened? How does he know of any of this, and why was he entrusting the action to her? He was the one who defeated Grindelwald, surely he had more influence than her. She asked all of this, and he put down his teacup and sighed.

“I'm afraid I am not the most adequate person for this job, as Tom would see right through me,” he replied sagely, and she mentally scoffed, thinking that's what he got for denigrating Slytherins, and now he expected her to work for him, but...her heart thudded, what was the threat? And why would it target Hermione? Or was she not even a target and this was all Dumbledore's hand at manipulation to get at Riddle?

“What is the threat?” she asked, cutting to the chase, watching as a sorrowful light entered his eyes.

“An operation that holds muggleborns as a certain...commodity.” and her eyes widened, understanding immediately what was not being said.

“With all due respect, professor, why me? You could take this to my uncle, who is an Auror, easily,” she asked, and he took a sip of his tea, before setting it down.

“Therein lies the dilemma, this had been something buried and at play for centuries, with those that uphold it in power, that includes our brave Aurors, but now with this window of opportunity with this new player, I am hoping to finally bring light to those responsible,” he responded, and it hit her what he expected to happen, and anger boiled in her blood.

“Hermione is not a window, and she is not bait either.” she set down the teacup roughly and stood, he expected Hermione to lead them all there, the muggleborn bait, who will no doubt find all the evidence, he theorized, through Riddle, and he wanted _her_ to be the messenger in between.

She did not doubt that if Hermione already knew about this, then she was likely already on it, what she didn't understand is his insistence that Riddle was in on it too. She stepped her way to the door, she didn't care for Tom Riddle anymore than the next foolhardy Gryffindor, but to automatically assume that he was apart of such a disgusting operation suggested Dumbledore wasn't telling her everything.

“Why are you so convinced of Riddle's guilt?” she asked, turning slightly to regard her old professor, and he observed her quietly before responding.

“I have seen suggestions that he may be, and though I pray he is not, I need to take the opportunity as it presents itself,” he finally replied, and she nodded, thinking it was the first thing he's said that's made a modicum of sense, it also suggested that he knew who was truly responsible, and for whatever reason, was not willing to give up that information.

“I'll think about it,” she replied, mostly to placate him, before opening the door to leave. She would speak to Hermione first and tell her the whole truth, Dumbledore could take a skip into the giant lake, she was not manipulating her friend. She would see what she knew, and if it was anything then she would help her, and if it was not, she would tell her, because if it was true, and she was truly in danger, Jas would rather inform and protect, rather than simply protect.

She walked through the hallways, mind no more at ease than when she'd first arrived, ears positively ringing with more questions than before and the most damning one?

  
What in Merlin's tit had she gotten herself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the info dump, I'm mostly trying to make sense of how for an entire world there are only 8 schools???? So, hell, I had a bit of fun with it, trying my inexperienced hand at finer details of world-building, I think I did alright, and I know in canon Hogwarts is apparently self-governing, but I've changed it for the AU to make it make sense.
> 
> Also, rewrote the outline I had for this story like 3 times, cause everytime I went back to read it, it looks like I wrote it while drunk.
> 
> ANYHOW, hope you all enjoyed the chapter, now combined with the gruelling work week I've had, and writing this, I am now going to lose myself in Umbrella Academy season 2. See you all in the update in 2 days!


	4. Chapter 3 - Bloated Sense of Responsibility

Chapter 3 – Bolt Hole – March 10th, 1947

  
Hermione sat at her old flat's kitchen table, knee drawn up to her chest as her tea cooled, and Jas sitting across from her with an almost anxious air around her. She supposed she was anxious too, she wanted to tell her friend everything, but last-minute doubts poured themselves into every single one of her mental filters.

She looked down at her tea, trying to remember when it had become that she'd come to prefer the beverage over her own beloved coffee, and squinted. She couldn't even remember the last time she had coffee, especially considering Tom always called for tea, and not wanting to bother the elves, she just drank it also, when had she changed? She shrugged it off as inconsequential, snorting at the thought that her mother would be proud to see her drink hot tea leaves like a proper Brit. 

Jas was studying her, she could tell, her friend might not be very open with her concerns, at least not often, especially after that soul-crushing chat last year, but she still cared a great deal, and she knew she was mentally cataloguing her current health and mood. She looked around the room, pleased to see that it was still the bright yellow that she'd picked when they'd first moved in, trying to ignore the unsettling silence between them.

It was a bright reminder that something had broken between them last year, that no matter how much they saw each other, it couldn't be fixed because, at the end of the day, she would still go back to Tom. She mentally swatted away the brief flash of melancholy and remembered why she was here, Jas had asked to speak to her about something, and yet, half an hour later, both were too cowardly to start. 

She took a deep breath to start.  
  


“Jas-”

“-I went to see Dumbledore.”

  
She was cut off, and before she could grind her teeth in annoyance, she registered what her friend had said.

“What do you mean 'you went to see Dumbledore,'?” she asked, quoting her statement. What could Dumbledore want? Though she'd briefly written down the Transfiguration professor's name as a potential person to speak to, she'd crossed it off, unsure of his trustworthiness. Jas sighed and ran a hand down her face, before looking towards her, wetting her lips as if gathering the best way to speak coherently.

“I went to see Dumbledore because he sent me a...summons, for lack of a better word,” she spoke carefully, and Hermione scrunched her nose, confused, but waved her hand for Jas to continue.

“He told me there is a 'rot' in our world, and I don't, _not_ , believe it, but also, I've never heard of it, and he insinuated that you might be threatened,” she finished, her dark eyes that had shot down to focus on her teacup, switched back up to look at her, and Hermione felt like she couldn't look away. Dumbledore was warning Jas about 'the glass ceiling' all without naming it, which means he knew about it, and opposed to it (she mentally unscratched his name from her list). 

She was silent for a bit, trying to gather the appropriate words to reply with, this is what she wanted, help, but she still weighed the pros and cons of telling Jas everything, trying to think that, if she didn't, would Jas involve herself anyway? Making up her mind, she answered.

“It's called, 'Le Plafond de Verre',” she replied slowly, hesitantly keeping eye contact, “I only discovered it recently, and I'm trying to get to the centre of it, but it's so shrouded and dangerous that I don't have much to go on,” she finished, watching as Jas's eyes closed hopelessly, and leaned back into her seat.

“Somehow, I knew you would know about it, and it hurts that you do, that you have to, and that it even exists,” she finally replied, and Hermione nodded, she'd be hurt too if something this horrible affected her friend and not herself, likening it to the soulless eradication of Jewish people that haunted Géraldine, even well after the war had been won.

“Why would Dumbledore not speak to me directly, though?” she voiced, pondering, and Jas's expression turned furious.

“He wanted me to manipulate you into unknowing bait,” she bit out, anger practically rolling off of her, “by telling me, he assumed that as a Slytherin, that I would either keep those cards close to my chest, or that I didn't care enough about your well-being to go along with it.” and Hermione pressed her lips together into a frown, while it was touching that Jas cared so much, her ridiculous heart puttering at her words, she had to force her focus on what she said, and realized that, as crazy as it sounded, it wasn't a horrible idea.

Unfortunately, that consideration must have flashed onto her face, however minutely, because Jas froze while looking at her.

“No, absolutely not! Get that thought out of your head right now,” she snapped, and Hermione looked down at her tea, tapping her nail against the cup's handle.

“I'm not ruling it out, and by no means would it be my first and only idea to tackle this, but you have to admit, it does have merit,” she reasoned, did she want to put herself in harms way purposely? Of course not, but if she could guarantee a way for Jas and the Aurors to find her if she put herself into the midst of it, there was no telling what she would discover: current victims, the perpetrators themselves, red-handed, the idea had merit.

“I don't care, and I don't have to admit to anything, we'll find another way.” Jas shook her head, her tone booking no argument. Hermione decided to lay the idea to rest, for now, despite how tempting it was. This was especially considering that it had been a month since she'd found that little sliver of information from Skeeter, and had found nothing further than that.

“I was thinking of writing a bill, though cases at work have been a bit heavy, I have the outlines for it, but because of this...thing, I'm not even sure if I should go through with it anymore,” she lamented, and she watched as Jas's posture softened as she relaxed.

“What is it?” she asked, and Hermione bit her lip.

“I want to create a bill that puts the discovery of muggleborns into the hands of the schools so that no one can be feasibly unaccounted for, but with this, and with Hogwarts being government-controlled, I'm worried that I'll lead more people into danger now,” she explained, and she saw her friend's expression soften.

“Your issue is moral, and you have a bloated sense of responsibility, Hermione, you don't have to take the weight of everything onto your shoulders,” she started, softly, “I think it's a good idea because magic needs to be taught to be controlled, and even one other child of Leo's case is one too many overlooked, but also, imagine that those who aren't found, that their only contact with the magical community if through evil like this. Don't they deserve the chance to at least fight?” she calmly intoned, and Hermione considered her words. It made sense, but something still niggled at her.

“What if I fail? What if this horrible thing is never resolved?” she asked, and Jas was quiet for a moment, pensive about her answer.

“I think...you have to want to do the right thing, regardless of whether you succeed or not, because it's the right thing to do, and you have to allow yourself to believe that there are good people in the world to continue your fight if you lose, because to think otherwise is to send yourself down a dark path you may not be able to come back from,” she finally responded.

Hermione let the advice stew, she knew Jas was right because she did tend to look at things hopelessly, only to become overwhelmed, which a lot of the time caused her the freeze and retreat into herself. Not to mention, her fear of failure that made her see things as hopeless as well, it hobbled her, costing her her faith in other people, that if she didn't succeed in this one thing then no one else would. 

She knew it wasn't the case logically, but emotionally, this fear of failure wreaked havoc on her perceived self-importance and capability. She knew Minister Leach started this and had failed years ago, but it was proof that others did care, Jas sitting across from her discussing this also proved it as well, she just had a hard time internalizing it.

“Okay, I'll work on it, in the meantime, since you can access the Ministry archives, can you look something up for me?” she asked, and at Jas's nod, she continued, “I first found all of this out by speaking to the portrait of Minister Nobby Leach, he told me that he worked within a group of muggleborns to combat discrimination within the ministry, can you look up who those muggleborns were? Maybe we can create a timeline if we find out who they were and how they died,” she finished, before excusing herself for the washroom, taking her extended purse with her in the excuse of having her monthlies.

When she was alone, she took out a small empty potion's vial, she couldn't lie, she'd been thinking further of what Jas had said, not so much Dumbledore's plan, but more that she was in danger, in any way, a contingency plan would be needed. With a quick _diffindo_ , she sliced her finger open and allowed the empty vial to fill with her blood, before stoppering it, healing the wound and cleaning the excess mess. She then took one of her curls and wincing, she cut off a bit before entwining it around the vial, where she cast a sticking charm to hold it in place, and _stasis_ on the blood, before leaving the washroom (flushing for effect) and sneaking into the office and leaving it in the desk drawer that was hers.

She didn't doubt Jas would find some use of it should she go missing, whether she got caught willingly or not, but she didn't want to place this in her hands personally because she knew Jas would be suspicious of all of her actions going forward if she did. Her friend had all the knowledge of the Department of Mysteries at her fingertips, and Hermione trusted her to find this, as well as find her.

She returned to the sitting room and retook her seat, her tea had gone cold, but with a tap of her wand, she reheated it. They then moved the topic of discussion to more pleasant subjects, like Harry and Ginny's wedding in October, as well as Ron looking to adopt Jean Pierre to give him the Weasley name. They passed the rest of their day like that, and Hermione had felt more at peace than she's had in a long while.

Chateau Lestrange – April 3rd, 1947

  
Leta gently guided her hand against the spines of the books in the grand library of her prison, looking for something she hadn't read yet, thinking it might be time to move up a shelf. She'd grown up here, so there were many books that she'd read during her youth, and since her house-arrest started, she'd been flying through them at a rapid pace now. She went through everything, regardless of genre, fiction, non-fiction, grimoires, truly anything that would give her an edge for whatever her future held.

Not that she could ever feasible run out of books to read, as Chateau Lestrange boasted the biggest collection behind Beauxbatons Magical Academy in all of France, she was more secretly hoping to come across anything that would help her unlock her magic, not enthusiastic about the idea of spending years in her uncle's company with no way to protect herself. She also thought more on her 'plan', though it wasn't necessarily as fool-proof as she preferred, she'd gone too long without acting, and she refused to have no play at all. Truly, she didn't trust her uncle any further than she could throw him, her months of relative peace were just the calm before the storm, she was the perfect chess piece right now, to be utilized in favour of the Lestrange family.

By witch's standards, she was still in her prime, at fifty-one, and she didn't look much different than when she was thirty, except the few bits of silver in her hair. She also knew of witches that have had children well into their seventies, so she believed her worries were founded upon legitimate concerns.

Caught in her thoughts as she was, she hadn't noticed the other presence until she felt a hand at her waist, cursing herself for her momentary absentmindedness, she whipped herself out of whoever's grip it was and turned to give them a lashing. Her uncle smiled at her, and she knew she couldn't say anything too vicious, lest he retaliated by taking away more freedoms than she already didn't have, so she took a breath and calmed herself.

“You startled me, uncle,” she spoke carefully, as to not reveal the full extent of her anger and indignity. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked down on her, he was a very tall wizard, imperious in his stature, his hair a shock of silver, and eyes a vicious gold, a Lestrange family trait. Gold eyes that Leta had never inherited, something that she'd always had appreciated, she loved her dark eyes, her hair, and her complexion, solely because it separated her, even minimally, from the evil of the name she carried.

He nodded at her to follow him and proceeded to lead her out of the library, as they made their way to his office, and she couldn't help the dread that curled in her stomach. Did he suspect her plan? He was not an unintelligent wizard and Zaza was not obliged to keep her secrets, especially not against her employer.

When they arrived, he stood to the side to allow her entry first, expression inscrutable, and as she walked past, she kept her chin up in a show of confidence she was not sure she entirely had, making her way to the seat facing his desk. She didn't flinch as he ran a hand against the back of her shoulders, before making his way around the desk to his seat. She waited impatiently while he carefully moved papers around before pinning her with a stare.

“Is there a reason you've needed to speak to me, uncle?” she asked coolly, and his lip twitched, sending a spark of frustration that would have heated her face had she not restrained it.

“I did, Leta,” he began, steeping his fingers together, “the war is over, and it is time you did your duty to the Lestrange name,” he drawled simply, and she mentally cursed, she'd known it was coming, but it didn't mean she had to roll over and do as he asked, he had nothing but Azkaban over her, and it was already not in his best interest to leave her there.

“I refuse,” she clipped, projecting an unbothered facade, and she watched gleefully as he frowned.

“You speak as if you believe you have a choice,” he commented softly, and she scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest leisurely.

“Don't I? What will you do? Throw me in Azkaban?” she retorted while quirking an eyebrow, “no, if I marry, it will be to someone of my choosing, when I please, and not because you've told me to,” she spoke calmly, but inside, a storm was raging. He tilted his head at her, eyes roving and taking her in, causing an anxious uncertainty to settle in her stomach.

“What will I do? Asks the witch who spent twenty years under an imperius?” his tone was almost a whisper, and she was positive, if looks could kill, he would be slumped over in his seat.

“Are you threatening me with an imperius, uncle? Because I can assure you, I am still only a part of this world because I want to be, but give me a reason and you will be marrying off a corpse,” she spat viciously, and they glared at each other in a stalemate.

“That will be all for today, Leta, it's late, you should rest,” he broke the silence first, and rigidly, she stood up and walked out without so much as another word, slamming his office door behind her.

She made her way back to her room, her previous goal of finding a book all but forgotten in her mind. It wasn't that she was lying, per se, it certainly wouldn't have been the first time she's considered suicide as a viable option in her life, her ongoing battle with her depression and guilt made suicidal ideation an almost familiar face at this point.

She'd even almost succeeded twenty years ago, until the carpet at been so rudely pulled from under her feet. If her uncle was hell-bent on forcing her to marry and pop out pureblooded sacred-twenty-eight approved babies, then she truly had no qualms of ending it once and for all, and the reason she believed he didn't argue her, was because he knew that. 

She may be stuck in here for the foreseeable future, but it didn't mean she was inherently powerless, and that was another thing, she had no intention of remaining so, there had to be a way to undo the binds on her magic, and if she was going to do anything, it would be that.

She returned to her room and headed straight for her desk, pulling out a sheet of parchment, and dipping her quill into her inkpot, she began to write, her idea from months ago finally coming to fruition, that is, if her recipient was agreeable. When she finished writing, she set down the quill and blew gently at the words, watching at the letters went from a shiny jet black to a dull mat, and when it was finally dry, she gave it a read through before folding it and signing her initials onto the flap. She then stood and called for Zaza, the elf, who like last time, appeared with a soft crack. 

Zaza looked up at her, and her eyes swung to the letter in her hands, unsealed because Leta did not have access to wax.

“Will you seal this for me and deliver it to someone in Britain?” she asked, kneeling to the elf's height, and Zaza nodded but looked apologetic, wringing her hands, and Leta felt a clip of anxiety curl again.

“What is it?” she asked.

“There are three people in Britain that Zaza is forbidden to deliver by vow, and that is Albus Dumbledore, Theseus Scamander, and Newton Scamander, Zaza is sorry ma'am,” she replied, and Leta relaxed, almost letting out a laugh. Did her uncle think her so daft? Theseus and Newt she understood, what she would give to speak to either of them again, but Dumbledore? That wizard could burn for all she cared, he had left her to rot, blue eyes twinkling in sympathy when her imperiusdefence was shot down. 

As the new owner of Grindelwald's wand, that she'd seen in his hand, he'd hand the power to confirm her defence, and yet, he hadn't, and for that, he was dead to her.

She smiled at the elf reassuringly, handing her the letter.

“That's alright because this letter is not going to any of those recipients,” she paused, gathering her wits about her, this was it, she sent this off and there was no going back, this could either incredibly benefit her, or backfire horrifically, and she prayed for the benefit.

  
“I want you to deliver this to Lord Thomas Slytherin in Britain, thank you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit of a short bridge-like chapter, one of the things in stories that kill me are characters that don't talk to each other or communicate and when a bad thing happens that could have easily been avoided if they'd talked to someone, it drives me insane (not in a bad way, but in a hair-pulling exasperated way, as you can probably tell, I had a great time reading A Song of Ice and Fire lol)
> 
> Also, I downloaded Grammarly for Chrome, and can I just say, where has this been my whole life??? It's amazing, cause I miss a LOT of punctuation errors and misspelled words even upon my seventh time rereading the chapter (im shite at talking to ppl, so i dont have a beta) Also, finally having a Canadian-English setting?????? I don't have to settle for either Amercian English or British????? *chefs kiss*  
> so ya, it's a lifesaver, wow.
> 
> Anyway, hope you all enjoyed the chapter, seeya in two-ish days (gonna try to write as often and update as quickly as possible, cause I'm heading back to school in September, and though my entire course is online, I'm not sure how it's gonna affect my time management skills (which are already lacking af))


	5. Chapter 4 - Un Po Piu Diretto

**Smut in this chapter.**

Chapter 4 – Department of Mysteries – April 2nd, 1947

Tom stood within the death chamber, it's cavernous emptiness soothing against the increasing volume of his thoughts, staring down death's door whilst calmly blocking out the fervent whispers that aimed to draw him closer. He trailed his eyes studiously along the frame, committing its scripted runes to memory, it's alphabet unlike any he has ever seen before.

His Horcruxes rattled agitatedly both against his sternum and on his finger, there was something about this room that called to him on a primal level, and though he understood that it was likely his mutilated soul seeking the reprieve of death, he humoured it, regardless to the promise of personal detriment. His regard for death (and subsequent refusal to abide by it) was a significant part of what made Tom who he was, another aspect of his all-encompassing awe in magic. It was the reason, that for all of his brilliance and passion in Hogwarts, that he'd sought to become an Unspeakable.

That his knights, peers and Head of House had been so surprised by his chosen path was almost insulting, and furthermore, it was proof that they didn't know him very well at all. Of course, they crowed when he succeeded, revered by his potential, calling him the future Minister for Magic, so enthralled they'd been by his charisma and intelligence, that they'd missed that the sole driving force of his existence was in pursuit of knowledge, as much so as to power.

He did not come here solely because it called to him though, no, because to say that would be to insult his level of self-control, which, personally, he felt he had an almost admirable grip on, all things considering. No, he came here because it had only ever been in death that Tom felt he found his answers, his questions of fate, the grand order of things, and most importantly, the idea of determinism.

For as long as he could remember, magic had truly been his sole companion in life, he had always felt he was special, and not in a way that denoted others around him (though he'd come to believe that as well) but in a way that denied him depressive thoughts simply because he knew, intrinsically, that he was needed. It was in the skills he had that no one else around him had ever had, as a child, it had been his ability to speak to snakes and his magic, and as an adolescent, it had been his superior memory.

He recalled even the most minute details of his childhood, something that he'd come to understand was rare for most people, even going so far as to remember parts of his infant-hood, recalling with perfect clarity how magic had held him in its arms well before he knew what it was.

Despite all of this, however, with his sense of being needed and his eidetic memory, not once had he not believed in free will. Free will had been the force that made him work hard, to better his life, free will had been what was going to see him too powerful to ever be stepped on again, and free will had been the key in which he would unlock his place in this world.

That was, of course, until he'd met Hermione and he'd found out, not necessarily all at once, but from what he'd gathered from the bits of pillow-talk over the last year, that she was much the same as him. Mornings where she'd lay flush against him, trailing gentle fingers over the line of hair on his stomach, downwards, recalling in a soft voice, almost impossible details of stories from her childhood.

Like the exact tenor of her grandmother's voice while reading to her as a toddler, if it had rained that day, or the same glowing lights on the ceiling of her room as an infant when everybody else had been asleep, that Tom recalled himself.

Certainly, he'd joined the Unspeakables to have limitless support to study magic, though admittedly, it had once been so that he could research Horcruxes more thoroughly, it was as he grew older, that certain factors made themselves known, and it became his only resource in researching his theory that he and Hermione were a product of some predetermined fate.

In the beginning, the mere thought of such a thing filled him with a pessimistic sort of denial, but the further and deeper he thought about it, the more he'd become fascinated. He'd thought for years that Hermione's existence was too coincidental, too good, to be true, and every year that subsequently passed, he was coming to believe that that may be the case.

A part of him raged at the implications because it meant that regardless of his actions, he could still lose or he could still die, the distinct lack of choice unnerving him. It made him also consider that perhaps even the choices he'd made until now had never truly been his own to make, did he want power, knowledge and immortality because of his own reasons? Or was there some sort of external force that drove him to them? Were the actions of others also predestined to lead him down a certain path?

He considered the letter he'd received from the Lestrange woman, still unsure of how he should respond, or if he wanted to at all. He considered the hall of prophecies, just doors away from where he stood, if he were to look, would he find a sphere with his name on it? And if he did, did he even want to listen to it?

He watched the lazily swaying curtains within the arch idly, obviously, he wasn't expecting a physical answer to any of his questions, it was more so that being in the presence of this otherworldly fixture helped him think and consider subjects outside his immediate sphere of influence.

It was also possible that he was making mountains out of molehills, but in the scant years he'd been apart of the magical world, he'd come to see that nothing was really out of the question, and though it wasn't often that he led himself into philosophical circles, once in a while, however, he felt the need to address their possibilities, as ignoring them felt like he was spitting on all that magic had given him.

After a few beats of silence, he turned to leave, and it was only once he was in the lift that he removed the hood from his head, undoing the shrouding charm in the process and transfiguring his robes to appear more ambiguous than the obvious grey of the Unspeakables. Striding his way through the busy atrium towards the floo, he considered his plans for the rest of the day, namely, he had Bellatrix coming over later so he could wheedle information out of her concerning Leta Lestrange.

Of course, he'd already heard of her, the witch who pleaded a twenty-year-long imperius _,_ it almost made him want to scoff at the ridiculousness of it. Though perhaps she wasn't lying, perhaps it was twenty years of being on and off the curse, that was certainly feasible, especially for a wizard rumoured to be as powerful as Grindelwald. The problem with that, if that were the case, then surely Dumbledore, the beacon of all that was right and good in the world, defeater of Grindelwald, would have defended her claims, being the one who disarmed her perpetrator, and yet, he'd stayed silent.

It seemed she was the ever consummate Slytherin, as in her letter she'd requested a transaction of information between them, something he wasn't necessarily against but was wary of all the same. Orion still had one favour over him, and that unnerved him already, this was a Lestrange, he'd be a fool to hand them any type of power over him.

There wasn't a soul in this world that could deny that the Lestranges were one of the biggest players in the magical world, and furthermore, there was no way they weren't threatened by his grab for power. Was this a ploy of Ramsey's? Slimy old bastard that he was, or was it genuine? Would the information that Leta Lestrange allegedly had, concern him personally?

He floo'd directly into his office, taking a seat and going through the paperwork on his desk. He thought back to when he was fifteen, back when he'd played with the letters of his name and had given himself a new one, a more powerful one, back when he'd been certain that his ascent to power would be a lot messier than it had turned out to be.

His knights had originally meant to be soldiers, fighting for his and their vision for their world that they'd believed in, now, however, to be one of his knights meant that they were in his inner-circle, more a group of contemporaries who shared in his success, than fighters.

Orion had gone into the Department of International Cooperation, Antonin had gotten himself deep into a world of criminal activity, after being kicked out of the Gringott's curse-breaker program for petty theft. Thoros had gone on to become a barrister, and Bellatrix had married and was essentially coasting on her wealth, that he knew so far, studying varieties of dark magic with her time. Abraxas had taken to shadowing Lucius in his unpalatable business ventures, while Frederick, Evan, Terrence, Graham, and Marcus had all taken after their respective fathers in their career paths, like good little pureblood scions.

Despite them not being the group they'd originally intended to be, they were all still at Tom's beck and call, because he'd been sure to keep them close, not being one to spit on the efforts of those that got him where he was, he only wished the older generations would fall in line as neatly, their support almost as fickle as the slightest spring breeze.

He didn't understand the aversion to him, and he felt he was missing crucial information that would explain it. At first, he thought it was his blood status, but he was starting to think it was something else, or rather, someone else, which further led him to look forward to Bellatrix's visit, because to him, it was hitting two birds with one hex (being of the mind that Ramsey Lestrange seemed a rather suspicious figure).

He reached into his desk and pulled out the Lestrange woman's letter, by now, of course, he'd committed its words to memory, but he gave it another once over, noting the neat penmanship, with it's looping flourishes and perfected pressure than thickened the stems of the letters, he decided to read it again.

_  
Lord Slytherin,_

_  
It is possible that you may not know who I am, but allow me to introduce myself, my name is Leta Lestrange. I write to you because I have information that may be of interest to you, however, in the spirit of the former Slytherin that I am, it goes without saying that I must request a boon in return before I divulge said knowledge._

_  
If you are in accordance with this transaction, call for an elf named Zaza, away from the protective wards of your residence, and she will deliver your response to me._

_  
Regards_

_~LL_

  
It was just as he finished reading the letter that the floo roared to life, and tucking it back into the drawer, he got up to greet his guest. Bellatrix Lestrange stepped through elegantly, and with a half flourished wave of her wand, the ashes on her shoulders disappeared as she stepped up to him, giving him a quick peck on the cheek in greeting, before moving towards the seat he guided her to.

“Bella,” he greeted amiably, as she sat gracefully, and he then headed towards the small bar behind his desk.

“Lord Slytherin,” she purred playfully in return, and he shot her a grin while pouring himself two fingers of fine scotch. When he went to pour her a glass, she grunted a 'keep going' once he'd hit the middle mark of the tumbler, and raising an eyebrow in her direction, he continued to pour, only handing it to her gently once the amber liquid was flush with the brim.

“So, I'm certainly no expert, but care to share the troubles you obviously have?” he asked sarcastically, standing in front of her, leaning against his desk. He took a sip from his own drink, savouring the distinct woodsy notes, and the slow burn down his throat, commending Helen once more for her excellent taste in Scotch. Bellatrix took a deep sip and sighed once she swallowed, running her tongue over her teeth before taking a breath to speak.

“I suffered my second miscarriage today, literally just got out of St. Mungos before I came here,” she replied stiffly, leaning back into her seat and tilting her head up, closing her eyes.

“My condolences,” he replied, knowing it was the proper thing to say in these instances, and she scoffed, before taking another sip.

“Oh, I'm not so choked up about it, can you imagine me as a mother? It's these Lestranges though, on my back about an heir almost as soon as me and Roddy married,” she retorted, crossing one leg over the other, “though I have to say, it worries me a tiny bit that he's not worried at all. Two miscarriages, Tom! What happens when I can't bring an heir to life, it's not like these things are a walk in the park!” she ranted, before draining her glass and holding it out for him to refill, to which he obliged.

“I don't understand, why is it so important that you have a child so early? You're both young, and I've heard witches carry to term in their sixties,” he asked, fishing for information, only for Bella to snort in derision.

“You're preaching to the choir, I don't understand any more than you do, I just figured, have the sprog now, give it to an elf and get on with my life, one more obligation crossed off my list,” she harumphed, annoyed expression crossing her face, and Tom snorted, taking a slow sip of his drink, before making an honest go of information extraction.

“Why does it also matter that you have the child, it's not like the Lestrange line is hurting, there's still Rabastan to marry off, and don't they have Leta Lestrange as well? She's under house arrest last I heard, soft sentence considering her only defence is a twenty-year-long imperius,” he spoke idly, gazing at the far wall in an attempt to seem passive, and luckily, Bella's drinks had already begun to hit and her usual razor-sharp focus was dulled, so she hadn't noticed.

“Rabby's into blokes, and Leta is like a spectre in Chateau Lestrange, I've only spoken to her once, not the greatest conversationalist, honestly, and if looks could kill, Ramsey would have keeled over long ago, there's a level of self-hatred that's just impressive,” she chortled, bringing her newly filled cup to her lips and taking a sip. Tom was almost impressed at her tolerance, also tucking away that useful egg of information, he'd consider it further later, once Bellatrix was gone.

“What's your contingency should you not have that heir?” he asked, almost genuinely curious, not that he ever planned on having children himself, but because he honestly wondered what the plan was for these pureblood families once they'd inbred themselves into infertility. She shrugged, with a pensive look on her face.

“Well, the obvious choice would be to adopt through blood magic, probably through surrogacy of some sort, usually from what I've heard, another pureblood who had successful pregnancies is approached with a deal, so we don't cross with any muggle filth,” she drawled, swirling the scotch in her glass with one hand while running the other through he long wavy hair. Tom tilted his head in confusion.

“If you're blood adopting the child, wouldn't that make any muggle blood of the surrogate redundant?” he asked, and she squinted at him as if he'd just spoken a different language.

“...Huh, dunno,” she slurred, and he snorted, bringing his drink to his lips while Bella smiled slyly at him. He almost startled when she brought her leg up and settled her foot onto his thigh, but restrained himself.

“Yes, Bella?” he asked, setting his glass behind him on the desk, before gently taking her ankle, lifting her foot before dropping it back down to the floor beside him, her eyes roved over him and she pursed her lips.

“We haven't fucked in so long, why is that?” she asked idly, and he scoffed, supporting his hands on either side of him on the desk.

“You're married, or have you forgotten?” he chided gently, not really in the mood to fight off advances, and at his response, she rolled her eyes.

“I haven't, but you know as well as I do that monogamy in pureblood marriages is nothing but a load of tripe,” she retorted, before her eyes widened, “unless you've been hit with the monogamy bug yourself! Is that it? Mudblood quim too good to stray away from?” she joked, and he frowned at her, knowing that she was obviously inebriated. This didn't go over well with her, and she stood and leaned into him, dropping her glass onto the floor and grasping at his cock through his robes.

“Struck a nerve, have I?” she whispered against his jaw, and before he could respond, the door to his office opened, and of all the bad timings, Hermione walked in.

“Tom, I-” she began, but froze upon seeing the (doubtlessly) suggestive image they made, he separated himself from Bella, who stumbled back into her seat, as Hermione broke from her stupor.

“Well, I apologize for interrupting,” she bit out before turning to leave, slamming the door behind her, and Tom mentally cursed before directing his ire to Bella, who grinned up at him sheepishly, and he had to quell the fury that raged through him. He walked around his desk, pulled open his potions drawer and pulled out a sobering concoction, before returning to her side and stiffly handing it to her.

“I think it's about time you head back to your monogamous marriage, Bella, and get some rest,” he spoke calmly, despite the anger roiling its way through his veins. Bella pouted but ultimately accepted the potion, uncorking and draining it back. She brought her gaze back to him, focus recovered, and he noted the disappointment shining there.

“You care about her, the mudblood,” she stated simply, not angry or accusatory, more defeated, and he didn't bother to dignify it with an answer, “well, better chase her down before she decides she wants nothing to do with you,” she sniped, before heading to the floo without another word, speaking her destination clearly and stepping through the flames.

Tom massaged his headache at his temples and decided it was better to do damage control now rather than later. He walked to her room, hoping she hadn't left the castle entirely, and once he arrived, he opened the door and stepped through, only to immediately duck from a glass that shattered against the door precisely where his head had been. He brushed the bits of glass off his shoulders, before taking her in, she was wearing her travel cloak and gathering her papers from her desk, stuffing them into the expendable bag she always carried.

“And where do you think you're going?” he drawled, taking in the state of the room. She'd done quite the damage, noting the ripped hangings of the bed and the splintered frame.

“Away from here, back to the flat probably,” she clipped, before making to move past him, and he grabbed her arm, which she reacted immediately by slapping him. His cheek stung from the force of the blow, and furiously, he wrestled both of her wrists into his hands while she snarled and tried to wrench herself away.

“Will you calm down, witch?! Let me explain!” he snapped after she kicked his shin, amazed that he'd forgotten what a hellion she could be when angry.

“Calm down?! You're telling me to calm down?! The audacity of you! How dare you! You get angry and possessive at the mere sight of me talking to another man, but you??! Oh, nooo, you can fuck who you please, RIGHT?!” she screamed into his face, trying harder to release herself.

“You're nothing but a goddamn hypocrite, now let me go!” she continued, and he held firm, letting her get her anger out, knowing if he reacted to her (very true) words, he'd only make things worse.

“Do you want to see the memory? Nothing happened, Bella drank a lot because she had a miscarriage today, and in her inebriated state she tried to engage me,” he explained calmly, she slowly stopped tugging her arms, “you walked in at the exact moment she tried to initiate something, nothing happened,” he continued, eyeing her slowly deflating anger, but she still eyed him warily. He needed to offer something further to make peace.

“What do you want? Ask me and it's yours,” he whispered, keeping eye contact, and something lit in her eyes. She took a step back, pulling him by his grip on her, until her backside was level with the bed, before turning so that they switched positions, and pushed him back onto the bed, climbing up onto his lap in the process.

'Smart girl,' he thought idly, choosing to stay silent until she could come up with a demand. He let go of her wrists and folded them behind his head, watching as she began undoing the buttons of his robes, fascinated by her display of power and control, not to mention, extremely aroused as well. Once his robes were open, she lifted her own and her cloak over her head, dropping them to the floor behind her, tossing her wand beside him on the bed, before reaching behind her to unclasp her brassiere, slipping it from her shoulders and tossing it behind her somewhere, until she sat there in nothing but her knickers and garter stockings, hair wild around her, glinting from the low candlelight.

She moved back slightly, bringing her hand down to tug at the waistband of his briefs, before palming his already half-mast erection. She stroked him slowly, and he almost couldn't breathe at the magnificent image she made, keeping eye contact while she brought him to peak hardness. She then lifted her hips, sliding her knickers to the side, before sliding down onto him, clenching him mercilessly all the way.

She began to grind low against him, and when he brought his arm down to grip at her thighs, she grabbed her wand and forced his arms above over his head, and feeling that they couldn't move anymore, surmised that she'd cast a sticking charm to keep them where she put them.

He groaned lowly and saw her eyes roll back into her head as she renewed her grinding, clawing her nails down his chest, leaving angry red lines.

He felt the fog of a rising orgasm as she began pitching herself forward and back again, clenching on his cock with each grind, and it was at that moment that she leaned forward and kissed his jaw.

“What I want Tom, is for you to be fair, if no wizard is allowed to touch me, then no witch is allowed to touch you, understand?” she whispered savagely, picking up her pace.

“As long as you consider me yours, that means you are mine, that is what I want from you, do you accept?” she continued delicately, and truthfully, if he hadn't been so lost in the edge, he might have tried to negotiate, but at this moment, he found he cared for nothing more.

“I accept,” he panted, and she slammed her hips backwards, earning a keen from him.

“Swear it,” she hissed, pausing mid-lift and clenching around the tip of his cock, and he could no longer see straight.

“Fuck, witch, I swear, as long as I consider you mine, then I am yours,” he hissed back, and she smiled, continuing her grinding until she found her release soon after, and it was while she was riding hers out that he found his, groaning as she clamped down around him, taking his entire load into her.

The walls of her cunt clenched on him sporadically, milking him for all he was worth, and if was being honest, he wouldn't have it any other way. She kept him inside her while she curled her arms and head under his chin, resting on his chest. His arms were now free and he wrapped them around her, massaging her scalp through her hair, while the other traced lazy patterns along her back. He thought back to his earlier musings, his thoughts on predestined fates and determinism, and came to the conclusion that he was more convinced of it now than he'd been five hours ago.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – April 3rd, 1947

“Ciao, cosa fai?”

  
Leo startled at the shadow that fell over his research, that being the mess of old newspapers and musty old records and yearbooks. He looked up to find sixth year Hufflepuff muggleborn Maria Spina, leaning over the back of the chair beside him, sugar quill hanging from her mouth as she lazily chewed on the stem.

Like Munari, Spina was another of the original Beauxbatons transfers, Italian too, but unlike Munari, she didn't care for English greetings, or English in general, and seemed to have a knack for having sweets on her at all times. She was a year older than him and exceptionally friendly, going so far as to inject herself into random people's business, and though he wasn't exactly thrilled about being disturbed, he wasn't angry because he knew she meant no harm by it.

“I don't speak Italian,” he replied, and she shrugged, swishing the sugar quill hanging out of her mouth, before taking it out to respond.

“You learn, is beautiful language,” she piped, leaning over to look at the display on the desk, a curious expression on her face.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, words slow and accent heavy, he wondered briefly if she and the other foreign students simply handed their assignments in their native language, or if they had to submit everything in English, Hermione had never made mention of it, so he was curious. If the latter were the case, that would be an unfair advantage to the native English speakers, but then, translation charms worked perfectly well for modern languages, it even generally picked up on dialects, something Hermione had been only slightly annoyed with since the entirety of Slytherin Library was generally composed of older, less common tongues. Recognizing that he was taking too long to answer, he shuffled out a response.

“I'm researching muggleborns in the UK and why there is discrimination,” he replied, and he watched her scrunch her nose.

“I do not like word, 'muh-gyul-bern'” she responded waspishly, emphasizing the word 'muggleborn' with her thick accent, “mi piace 'sangue-nuovo', é un po piu diretto,” she continued in Italian, and he shook his head again, not understanding, and she huffed.

“It direct, 'New-Blood'” she explained, and he nodded. Hermoine told him she always considered 'nouveau-sang' to be a more proper term, but had taken to using the term 'muggleborn' more often in recent years simply due to how often she encountered it. It seemed most romance and Latin based languages preferred a variation of the same term in their own language, and he supposed he did like it better, as it was essentially the truth, as it was either the start of a new bloodline or by adding muggleborns to an already existing line it was to inject 'new blood' into it, preventing it from stagnating and becoming inbred.

He snapped out of his thoughts when Spina grabbed his journal, and flipped through the pages, angrily, he yanked it out of her hands, not appreciating her touching his things without asking, she lifted her hands in defence.

“Perdonami,” she quickly apologized, “you find 'muggleborn', but why no pureblood?” she asked, once again emphasizing each syllable of the moniker. He wanted to scoff and retort that he didn't give a fig about purebloods, but she cut him off again.

“'Muggleborn' not u-unaffected by pureblood, how is say... pureblood effect muggleborn death and life?” she struggled to explain, and if he thought before that foreign students did their work in English, this disproved it, though her attempt was admirable, and he appreciated her trying until he began to understand the meaning of what she said.

It made sense, he'd been so focused solely on muggleborns that he hadn't stopped to consider how their pureblood peers and their bloody pureblood lives affected muggleborn ones. Surely, there were many, if not more, articles on pureblood achievements, news, and power wrangling that affected the more disenfranchised. He had started to become frustrated that he was finally in the 1200s in his research, but still hadn't found any conclusive patterns, so this could definitely be a plausible consideration.

“That is...actually a good idea, thank you,” he replied, and she beamed, before plopping the sugar quill back in her mouth and taking her leave, waving as she walked away. He lazily returned it as he scanned the mess on the table, already caught in a brainstorm of how he was going to pull this off.

  
He huffed.

  
He was definitely going to need another limitless notebook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno about you guys, but writing that Hermione threw something at his head was pretty satisfying (of course, a disclaimer, I don't condone any type of abuse in real-life relationships, and I think it goes without saying that the Tomione I've written until this point has been the furthest thing from healthy)
> 
> Unrelated: Spina is a small little cameo of my actual grandmother, in all her goofiness. She passed away in June from Covid-19.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed the chapter.


	6. Chapter 5 - And a Box of Baklava

Chapter 5 – Library of Alexandria – April 20th, 1947

Hermione grabbed the last scroll from the translation counter, adding it to the bundle she was already holding precariously and as gently as she could, in the crook of her arm. As she'd told Jas, she had started working on her bill that would put the registry of muggleborns on a census, into the hands of a school, where the first sign of magic would be investigated by a member of faculty, to determine the existence of a magical child.

She had taken queues from the French ministry, reaching out to their census department to inquire upon their methods, and though the tracing of nouveau-sang was an actual office within the department, it had just taken the tiniest bit of adjustment to apply it to Hogwarts (as it was the ICW recorded school for the landmass that was the UK).

Now she was mainly building her speech and presentation to convince the Wizengamot to vote in favour of the bill, which became a whole new challenge in its own right, as she had to convince them that muggleborns deserved to be found and taught (a bar so low, she thought it to be in the seventh circle of hell).

This had led her back to Egypt, to the Library of Alexandria, as it had been so instrumental in the completion of her house-elf bill, she figured that there had to be something on the existence of new magicals, and she'd been right. There were aisles filled to the brim with theories and research on the topic, from all over the world. That was what was so unique about the Library, it was run by its own community and culture that consisted of up to hundreds of thousands of members, all many different species, and most notably, a subsection of this community was called collectors.

Collectors were the scholars of the library, magicals that travelled the world, living within both secluded and open communities, learning the languages, traditions and legends, so that they may bring them back to the library for academic preservation.

The history of the library was fraught with misconceptions in the non-magical world, as it was famously known for being burnt down by Ceasar in an attempt to fight in the civil war between Cleopatra and her brother Ptolemy XIII. It was his use of fire, which had spread to the docks and to the great library, that had given him the advantage in battle. What non-magicals didn't know was that the magical population had protected the works by using an earlier variation of the flame freezing charm (also famously used during the witch trials of Europe), and while the flames kept the non-magicals at bay, all works had been moved to a secondary location, which is where the library remained to this day.

Deep underground of what is known today at Lake Maryut, still on the coast of the Mediterranean, within Alexandria, the library had flourished, unaffected by the rising and seceding water levels of the lake over the last millennia. Each document, scroll, and book had layers upon layers of protection spells on them, millennia of information that she would need hundreds of lives just to read half of its collection, and it was only due to the strict sorting system that she was able to find anything at all.

On the subject of muggleborns, that she'd found so far, was that the perception of them varied by country and culture. Generally, she found that it depended entirely on the relationship between magicals and non-magicals, which in Europe, with the prevalence of Catholicism, combined with the witch trials, was not nearly as positive as some non-European countries. She found that the worst of the collective was Italy, England, Germany, and Denmark, which spread its abhorrence to neighbouring countries, which was why (she assumed) Durmstrang did not admit muggleborns within its school, and why Grindelwald's campaign was even ever able to leave the ground. The most progressive of Europe, she found, was France, Spain, Portugal, Croatia, Bulgaria and Greece, while the rest fell somewhere in the middle of progressive and not.

It wasn't all bad, however, in countries with naturally spiritual faith, magic was seen as a gift, and new magicals were seen as blessings. The Haudenosaunee, of what was modern-day Central Canada (renamed Iroquois by French colonizers) revered new magic, especially in girls, who were seen as leaders, being the matrilineal kinship it was (a pattern she noticed in many different tribes, like Cherokee, Haida, Navajo and many more, and honestly, Hermione thought them well ahead of their time, really).

Then there was the Yoruba, native to West Africa, in modern-day Benin, Togo, and Nigeria, that had a very positive outlook of their own as well. Yoruba being the basis for a number of religions that Hermione was even familiar with within the Caribbean, it held the belief that all human beings possessed a destiny, to simplify it.

In East Asian, and Southeast Asian countries, she noticed that the statute of secrecy was basically nothing more than a suggestion, which was much the case for South and Central America, especially in close-knit communities, the general consensus was “don't ask, don't tell”. This made sense to her because when her magic had become a known reality, it had been her mother who had been more aghast at the idea than her father, who'd been enthusiastically excited.

There were hundreds of theories upon new-magical existences as well, many that crossed over into the theoretical explanation for magic in its entirety, and though Hermione personally felt that it didn't matter how she and people like her acquired their magic, that was not going to win her, her bill.

She carried the scrolls over to the table she was working at, all of them translated copied to ones she'd pulled off the shelf, she had picked them out yesterday and requested they be translated with the library staff, who were happy to oblige for a small fee. She almost felt odd being here alone, as the last time she'd been here, Tom had taken her for her birthday. This time, she'd been here for two days, leaving Friday afternoon after work, Tom apparently had politicking to do with the upcoming Chief Warlock election, so had abstained from coming with her.

Her mind wandered as she took her seat, swinging her braids back around her and out of her face. Her feelings for Tom were...complicated, to say the least, certainly she'd always found him attractive because that was just an indisputable fact, and she had sort of given in to the quasi sexually-beneficial relationship they kept, but she'd never really acknowledged him as hers. Off the top of her head, she could list reasons why, first being that for the longest time, she'd felt like she had barely been keeping her head above water, that worrying about her relationship status just hadn't been a priority. That is until she saw Bellatrix all over him, and something akin to rage had lit inside her faster than kindling, it had only been when she'd arrived back to her room, intent on warding it against him and sleeping it off, that she considered her reaction to legitimately be jealousy and hurt, by the perceived infidelity (infidelity? Were they even a couple??).

Suffice to say, that realization had spooked her into wanting to leave so she could think and figure it out while being absolutely furious at the same time. That he'd dared to be possessive and jealous, only to turn around and sleep with other witches had incensed her, to the point where it became apparent that she had to leave, or she would be going to Azkaban for homicide.

Back in her room, she'd let curses fly, anything to give the buildup of anger an outlet, demolishing a good deal of her room, and when he'd walked in, before she could even stop herself, she'd whipped that whisky glass as hard as she could, at his head.

The acknowledgement that somewhere in the last year, she'd come to view Tom as hers, while simultaneously being miffed that he'd ruined her chances with Jas, had smacked the truth of her behaviour in her face like a cold, dead fish, leaving her gobsmacked as to when the hell it actually happened. When he looked her in the eye and asked her what she wanted from him, a million things ran through her mind's eye. She considered the glass ceiling, how her life was potentially in danger, how much work she wanted to do to make the world a better place, telling him to never touch her again, all of it came back to one thing, how she felt.

She was still reeling from the discovery, but she felt safe with him, protected, even, and it was something she wanted to keep for herself, regardless of the price. And Tom? Tom was cruel, possessive, an absolute narcissist, and an overall arse, but he was also patient, and supportive (to her, at least) and she wanted to keep that, keep him, for herself.

Did she love him? She wouldn't go that far, but then, her definition of love was skewed, as all she'd ever really known was the platonic variety for her mother and friends, she understood attraction, but romantic love? She couldn't say that, no, but what she did know, was that she was the architect of her own future, and whether that was good or bad, remained to be seen. Putting that train of thought towards the back burners of her brain, she focused on her research on Celtic lore, as well as the main influences for Western Civilization, that being both Ancient Rome and Ancient Greece.

It was a couple of hours later when the chime on her watch went off, indicating that her portkey would be leaving in two hours, it was six in the evening, and she'd spent almost the entirety of the last two days in this library, save for the times she'd wandered out to browse for street food. She looked back at her documents and decided that food was actually a good idea, so she gathered everything up, and brought back her translated scrolls to the front desk, leaving them there to be organized in with the originals, before heading towards the lifts.

As the lift ascended up the many levels to the surface, she considered what she'd learned. In both Ancient worlds, people had believed that new magic had been a gift from Hecate/Hekate, the goddess of magic, and witchcraft, while in Celtic traditions, she hadn't been nearly so pleased with what she'd found. The original magic users had apparently been the Druids, who believed the god Gwyddion had bestowed magic upon them, but turned around and considered new magic to be changelings, and tricks of the fey folk.

She frowned, that certainly wasn't a lot to go on, and not for the first time, she felt like she may get a more definitive answer from the library in Alcazar Deslizan, which would be all well and good if she could read a damned thing there. She'd considered briefly talking to Tom about allowing the community of the Library to come and translate a few, but had shaken the idea off, Tom was far too much like a dragon hoarding gold, so he'd never allow it to happen. Stuck at a literal dead end, she decided to focus on food and the fact that she would be back in England in an hour.

The lift finally stopped, and before she stepped out of the small house that hid it, she dug into her bag and pulled out a scarf to sling over her head loosely. The market she was going to had a high non-magical population, and though she didn't think it was required for her to do so (she'd seen a few women without anything covering their hair) she did it mainly not to arouse any suspicion or gain any attention. With that, she made her way to the fish market, noting that the crowd had died down a bit since she'd been there this morning. Some tables were packing up, and there were a handful of foreigners still browsing the wares, she weaved her way around them, following her nose for barbecue.

Finally, hearing the sizzle of one of the stalls she favoured down the way, she found a man flipping seasoned crabs off the barbecue and into a basket while frying up some battered calamari. She bought up a basket of the calamari and added in two crabs, before heading towards the stall with fresh bread, and buying a bun. She liked tearing the meat out of the crab and putting it in the bread, and with her food acquired, she searched for a table at one of the outdoor cafes, finding one, she sat down to eat after ordering a tea and a box of baklava to go.

She ate quickly, seeing as her portkey was due to leave in thirty minutes, watching people as they passed, and she quirked an eyebrow at the few who were obviously magical, seeing their wands strapped to the inside of their arms in a holster. This gave her the impression that the Statute of Secrecy really was nothing more than a suggestion that pandered to Western intolerance for non-magicals.

She rolled her eyes and finished her food, before subtly vanishing the leftovers, cleaning her hands and mouth, and tucking the baklava neatly into her bag, once that was done, she went to find a secluded place for her portkey to activate. After a few minutes, she found a narrow alley and stepped in, disillusioning herself for good measure, and waited the last eight minutes before she'd be ripped through time and space, hoping the ride wouldn't be too rough (she didn't want to lose the delicious food she'd just ate).

She felt the pull at her navel, and a few minutes later she was standing within the Ministry's portkey office, she brushed her robes off and walked out, only once she was in the hallway did she dig out an anti-nausea drought. She tossed it back, grimacing at the taste, she cast both a freshening charm around her clothes and a breath freshening charm to her mouth, before making her way to the lifts.

It was while she was waiting for it, someone came down the hall and waited beside her, she looked at them from her periphery and found them slightly familiar, but couldn't place them. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with pale skin that set off his maroon robes and gold eyes, she knew this because he was staring at her.

“Miss Granger-Riddle, I must say, it's certainly a pleasure to meet you personally,” he spoke softly, so much so, that she thought she was imagining him talking to her. She turned to him to find him facing her, her manners winning the battle of whether to stay quiet or not.

“A pleasure, mister...?” she replied, holding her hand out to shake, trailing off because she honestly could not put a face to a name. His lip twitched as if amused by something, and she felt her ears heat up, momentarily grateful that her complexion didn't show blush that easily. He grabbed her hand and brought it up to place a kiss on the back of it, startling her, before she remembered pureblood manners were a beast of its own entity.

“Rodolphus Lestrange, Miss Granger-Riddle,” he responded, and she nodded while she took her hand back warily, it was then the lift door opened, and to her disappointment, aside from the operator with a novel in his hands, it was empty. She spoke for the Atrium and almost sighed in exasperation when her companion spoke the same.

“Did you come from the portkey office, miss?” he asked, and she turned her head to look up at him and nodded.

“Yes, I'm arriving from Alexandria, Egypt, and yourself?” she asked politely, and he clasped his hands behind his back, which didn't make her feel any safer, for some reason, she was on edge around this wizard, and she couldn't put her finger on it.

“Yes, from Paris. Alexandria, hm? Not planning to hit our illustrious Wizengamot with another bill so soon, are you?” he joked, but something about his tone seemed like it was quite threatening, she titled her head at him.

“Would you disapprove if that were the case?” she asked, mentally counting the 'dings!' the lift made, counting the floors until the Atrium where she could make some kind of hasty escape.

“Perhaps...” he trailed off, and she squinted her eyes at him in confusion, when the lift door finally opened, reaching the Atrium, to reveal Tom standing there, and she'd never been so glad to see his ridiculous face. She exited and made her way to his side, but his eyes never left Rodolphus, who was stepping out of the lift leisurely.

“Lord Slytherin, I've met your lovely cousin, I'm surprised, however, Bella's stories do not do her justice,” he spoke smoothly, and she looked up at Tom, noticing an almost imperceptible twitch to his eye, clearly, he wasn't happy with that comment. She looked back at Lestrange to find him watching her, and unnerved, she turned her attention around the atrium, taking note of the few people rushing around.

“Is that so?” Tom replied airily, as if unperturbed.

“Truly, a gem, all things considering...” Hermione whipped her head back to look at him...did he just?

“Anyhow, Lord Slytherin, Miss Granger-Riddle, it's getting rather late, I'll leave you here to both enjoy the rest of your evening,” he finished, nodding his head, and as he passed, he gave her another once over before making his way towards the floos. Once he was out of earshot, she unclenched her hand from Tom's robes‒when had she done that?‒and looked up at him.

“I don't like him,” she stated plainly, and Tom snorted.

  
“Smart of you, really.”

Ministry of Magic – April 20th, 1947

Tom had spent the day visiting offices of certain key members of the Traditional party to garner where support was being lobbied in the upcoming election for Chief Warlock. So far, there was Albus Dumbledore, Lord Ramsey Lestrange, Amelia Bones, and Lord Tamarius Gamp, and of the candidates, as it stood, Gamp would be his own pick. Truthfully, he would rather not see Lestrange acquire any more power, Dumbledore could rot for all he cared, he didn't know nearly enough about Bones to have an opinion, and Gamp was a true neutral which made him the preferential candidate.

The Chief Warlock election was initially a democratic election, selected by the people until there were two to choose from, and from the two, the Wizengamot got the final vote. He felt that Ramsey was a fool to even partly make an enemy out of him if he truly wanted this seat because after talking to the majority of Traditional seat holders, it would only be with Tom's vote that he would win.

From there, it had been around five in the evening when he'd passed his way by the ministry archives, where he briefly ran into Jaismine Shacklebolt, who glared at him liked he'd kicked her newborn crup, to which he'd returned it with a smug smile, knowing exactly what her problem with him was.

Every single Slytherin knew that Shacklebolt fancied witches, it had been a running gag for years, how she never even bothered to make male friends, that is, until she'd become friends with Hermione, and suddenly after years of ignoring wizards, she was friends with Hermione's ragtag group of Gryffindors, Potter and Weasley.

He figured it out almost immediately, and back in school, he'd been initially annoyed at the idea of Hermione returning her feelings, but then she'd started courting Kai Fawley ('may he rest in peace,' he thought savagely), and he'd decided that it didn't actually matter who she fancied, because, in the end, it would be him, at least, if he had anything to say about it (and he did). So, Shacklebolt could glare at him until the end of her days, and he'd still have won, it made him grin, wondering if she knew that he'd had Hermione's hands tied to bed frame two days ago, on her knees with her arse in the air, and let out a breath of a laugh before making his way to the lifts.

He still had roughly two hours until Hermione's portkey would be arriving, so he entered the lift and directed it towards the Department of Mysteries, transfiguring his robes to grey with a hood, pulling it up and casting the shrouding charm. Once there, he made his way to the archives there, walking towards the soul magic section, still a rather small section that he'd read his way through multiple times, always hoping to find more, he considered submitting his Horcrux experience, but thought better of it, as Unspeakables were not immune to the law. He plucked out a random book and began reading, his mind only slightly paying attention to the printed words.

His relationship with Hermione had once again decided to take up space in his mind, he still hadn't given up on the possibility of making her a Horcrux, it just wasn't a priority right now, as he was content with where they were at.

He was reminded of her righteous anger weeks ago, when she'd walked in on Bella and him, and oh, how she'd been magnificent, strangling that vow out of him, he'd been certainly impressed.

Her wording had been concise as well, in that she wasn't preventing him from sleeping with others forever, no, she was preventing him from sleeping with others while he considered her, his, damning him by his own whims, clever minx that she was. He'd entered the room half-expecting that he would have to force her to stay, not to be claimed himself (though admittedly, he wasn't angry in the slightest, it had been glorious).

He finished the book, and looked at his watch only to notice that it was half-six in the evening, the book ended up being on the concept of soul-mates. Years ago he would have scoffed at the idea, but nowadays, it seemed rather an apt description of what he and Hermione had, though unfortunately, there wasn't much on the concept. It was a curious subject, that left him with questions, would they still be soulmates when she had an actual piece of his soul, what if he got her to make him into a Horcrux so that he held a piece of hers? He shook his head, he was getting ahead of himself.

Firstly, if he was going to make her into a Horcrux, he would need the perfect sacrifice, and originally, he'd thought of Shacklebolt. Who better to symbolize Hermione's connection to him, than someone who wanted her for themselves? But then he talked himself out of it, it was far too close, especially after Fawley, his father and grandparents, and even Helen, sooner or later, someone was bound to notice that people dropped like flies around him and Hermione. This was troublesome because he knew he wasn't at a powerful enough level to come out unscathed if someone investigated, and not to mention, Hermione would be cross with him, and that would be unfortunate.

At seven, he headed back up to the Atrium, noting that Hermione's portkey ought to have arrived by now, so he figured he may as well wait for her. It was Sunday, so the ministry was generally empty save for over-timers, part-timers, and an intern or two. He stood outside the lifts, people watching until finally, one opened, and she was in it, looking extremely uncomfortable in the presence of Rodolphus Lestrange.

He felt the ire at the back of his neck, and when he'd spoken, it had turned to rage, which he'd muffled before it could make itself known, barely acknowledging that Hermione's hand was gripping at his robes.

Bella had spoken to Rodolphus about Hermione, and he cursed himself, he knew he should have looked further into that look of disappointment, but he'd brushed it off as nostalgia for old times when it appeared to have been much more than that. What made him furious was that Rodolphus knew Hermione was off-limits, and here he was sniffing around her, regardless. The only thing he could make of this was that his position of power was not a secure as he'd assumed.

Rodolphus would not dare to act so blatantly against him unless he'd gotten the signal from Ramsey, it was either they were targeting her for her house-elf bill, or to get to him, and neither was acceptable. When the other wizard left and he was left with Hermione, he guided her to the floos, letting her head to her room to shower when they arrived home, while he heads to his office.

He sat for a moment and considered his options, only a majority vote from the entire Wizengamot upon the call from a Chief Warlock could oust him from his political power, though he would still keep the name, vault and castle, he'd lose his seat within the Wizengamot, and that was not a reality he wanted to consider. This meant he needed to take the Chief Warlock election seriously enough to make sure none of his perceived enemies ended up with that power over him, but first, he needed information on Lestrange's moves.

He pulled out Leta Lestrange's letter and analyzed it for a minute, it could be a trap, or, it could be exactly what he needed. At that moment, he pondered the possible scenarios before deciding to bite the bullet. He pulled out a sheet of parchment, quickly wrote his response, before closing it with green wax, and his personal seal.

He then got up and apparated to the mainland, away from any wards, calling out the elf's name. Within seconds 'Zaza' appeared, wearing fitted robes, and bangles on her wrists. He handed her his letter and a small bag of galleons as a tip to ensure that his letter reaches absolutely nobody but Leta Lestrange. Once the elf disappeared, he disappeared back to the castle and made his way to Hermione's room.

  
After all, she'd been gone for far too long, and he had every intention of making up for the lost time.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shite is starting to go down, hang onto your hats.
> 
> hope you guys enjoyed the chapter, sorry again for the info dump.
> 
> Unrelated: Baklava is delicious


	7. Chapter 6 - A Promise

Chapter 6 – Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – April 26th, 1947

  
Leo rubbed his hands over his eyes, frustrated with studying, while Munari and the group of Ravenclaws he was currently studying with barely gave him a glance before turning back to their own notes. He'd promised he'd actually study today because the last paper he'd gotten back was only graded an Acceptable, and with him going back to Slytherin Castle tomorrow for the spring hols, he'd have a lot of explaining to do.

He grimaced lightly, he was more worried about Hermione being disappointed in him than he was Tom, even though Tom was the one sponsoring him. He knew he'd be displeased, but he just couldn't find it in himself to care. He didn't care about any of this, about Hogwarts, magic, or this stupid world, and if he was being honest, he only really stayed here because Hermione had been excited for him, but with all the information he's found through his project, he just couldn't fathom why she gave a damn about this world when it didn't care for her, didn't care for them, in the slightest.

Maybe when he was with her this coming week he could try to convince her that leaving was a good idea, he would even go to a different school if she wanted him to. He shook his head and brought his hands down from his face to grip at his quill again, bringing his attention back to the textbook in front of him. Tomorrow was the start of spring hols, which was a week break so that students could join their families for Beltane, which was the first of May, on the coming Wednesday, and afterwards, when term picked back up again, OWLs would be commencing over a month and a half period on the weekends.

His first OWL was his Ancient Runes one of May seventeenth, and considering how much time he hadn't been spending on schoolwork, he needed to get serious, fast, or we would be failing them spectacularly. Unfortunately, his mind wandered back to his project, he felt like he was just brushing up against something enormous, having taken Spina's advice, he's spent the last few weekends entirely on researching purebloods.

He researched their births, deaths, and career choices, which, despite the fact that there were so many more of them in comparison to muggleborns, their information was laughably easy to find, especially considering that they had whole books practically dedicated to their bloodlines. It almost annoyed him that what had taken him months to find a few centuries of information on muggleborns, had taken scant weeks to find of purebloods.

He was currently in the 1400s now for both muggleborns and purebloods and he was beginning to notice more troubling facts, that being the increasing amount of unresolved missing person cases for muggleborns since the start of that century. On the pureblood end, the only coinciding significant movement is that of the Lestrange family beginning their British line in 1408, splitting from the main family in France.

He didn't know much about the family, and any information he'd looked up seemed pretty run of the mill, all in the vain of unfair pureblood advantages here, and a splash of pureblood supremacy rhetoric there, same for every other bloody family he's had to look up. He couldn't speak to anyone in the school either, as there were no Lestranges enrolled, the latest one graduating in 1945, making him only a couple of years older than him, but something didn't sit well with him, and he felt like he was looking into the maw of a beast, yet confusing it for a door.

“Are you okay?” a question came from his left, and his eyes and attention took a minute to focus back in on the present before turning it to the asker, Munari, who sat beside him. He nodded to her, before leaning forward onto his elbows to try and read through his textbook, where he felt like he was seeing the information, but not retaining even a bit of it.

Ancient Runes really was a fascinating subject, he was sure, he just wasn't interested in the slightest. Tom had been the one to arrange his schedule and pick his classes, while he'd simply gone with it. The only class he'd actually had wanted to take had been Care of Magical Creatures, but Tom had scoffed and called it useless, so he'd never brought it up again. Honestly, magic or non-magical world, animals were really the only things he actually interested in, could name the eating habits of a koala and the mating habits of multiple types of fish off the top of his head, from years spent alone reading through his father's Encyclopedia Britannica.

Realizing once more that his mind had trailed away from studying and that once again, he hadn't managed to absorb a single thing in his textbook, he forced himself once more to focus and dived into his studies.

The Burrow – May 1st, 1947

Hermione cast _orchideous_ once more, helping to trail linked yellow marigolds and may flowers along the table outside, after having done the window sills and door frames of the Burrow, while she'd gotten Leo, who she managed to get to join her, to drape matching flowery garlands on the two Weasley cows and single mule. Today was Beltane, and although she didn't celebrate it personally, she'd still come with Leo when the Weasleys invited her.

April had passed with not much fanfare, May was upon them, and she was still stuck on her bill. She figured her problem was that there was so much information to actually choose from (in terms of reasons) that she could use to convince the Wizengamot to vote in favour, that it was harder to come up with a cohesive argument, especially considering when the bottom line was that she wasn't exactly sure how to convince them that they should care about other people. It both frustrated and disheartened her, but she wasn't giving up and throwing in the towel yet.

She finished tossing flowers around the table while arranging dishes and looked up at the sky, shading her eyes with her hand. The day was sunny and clear, perfect, really, for a feast to celebrate the start of summer. She looked around, she could see Ron cooking through the kitchen window of the Burrow, with Géraldine assisting, while beside the home, she spotted Harry and Ginny carrying extra chairs out of the shed, leaning them against the wall so that they could charm them to float the rest of the way.

In the distance, she could see Lee, Angelina and George sitting off together by the lake, throwing fish food in lazily, while Fleur and Bill lounged with their daughter, Victoire, who had been born a year after the war had ended, under the canopy of trees to her left.

Molly came out of the house, balancing dishes while keeping a steady eye on the bowl of sliced cucumbers that Jean Pierre was carrying beside her, and if she listened carefully, she could hear the wireless playing in Arthur's shed as he tinkered with non-magical knick-knacks. All of it seemed very idyllic and gave her a soft feeling of contentment, that is, if she ignored the snide inner voice that told her she didn't belong here, in this familial warmth, because her family was dead.

She shook her head, causing her braids to fall over her shoulder, trying to disregard the nasty thoughts from her mind. She had family, she looked towards where Leo was reclining in the grass with one of the cows, propped up against its side, both with a garland of marigolds around their necks, dozing in the sun. The sight made her smile, because although he wasn't related to her by blood, Leo had become family, and she was glad of it because otherwise, her only familial link would be...well, Tom.

He'd been a bit overbearing since the lift incident at the Ministry, asking where she was going every time she left, who she was with, and she wasn't sure she cared for it. She understood that her encounter with Lestrange had been jarring, never had she felt so objectified and demeaned in one instance, but she didn't quite understand his worry, unless, of course, he knew something and wasn't telling her.

That's what was getting to her, it was a niggling sense of anxiety that crept its way up her spine, that he might know something about the glass ceiling, and was purposely staying quiet about it. She dispersed that train of thought, feeling the gloom settle upon her, and went to help Molly with dishes, she would have time to think about all of that later.

It was soon that the bonfire was up and they'd all eaten, there were about three tables, families who lived near the Weasleys had come to join them, notably was Luna and her father Xenophilius, who were back from Indonesia. Now everyone had momentarily returned to their homes to douse their fireplaces, so that they may relight them with flames from the Beltane bonfire, and once done, they would come back to continue celebrating.

At the table she was sitting at with Leo, and the rest of the Weasley family, Ron stood up, asking for everyone's attention. She could see that his ears were red and that he was a bit embarrassed to speak, but it all seemed to melt from his facade when Géraldine reached out to hold his hand, allowing a goofy grin to spread onto his face.

“Some of you may know, but I recently decided to adopt Dine's younger brother, Jean Pierre, as my own, and it's definitely been a rewarding experience because he's such a good kid,” he started, though Jean Pierre wasn't present, having fallen asleep and been taken to one of the rooms earlier, “I know all of you have been extremely supportive, and for that, I am forever grateful, but I, we, have more news for you,” he continued, helping Géraldine to stand beside him, and Hermione had a feeling of where this would go.

“Dine and I are expecting, and yeah, we're really excited,” he stumbled out, face beat red, and eyes happy, while Molly was gasping into her napkin, tears shining in her eyes.

“Another grandbaby? Oh, Arthur!” she grabbed her husband's hand and turned big tearful eyes to him, and even Hermione could feel the utter joy radiating off the older witch.

They all took their time congratulating the two of them, raising drinks to them, Molly all but throwing herself around to ensure Géraldine's comfort, and it made a part of Hermione feel cold. It made her wonder how her own mother would have reacted to such news, and she realized once again that it was another milestone that she'd never be able to share with her, and any milestones she would ever have again because she could not ever have her mother there with her again.

She felt the block in her throat before she felt the burn in her eyes, and excused herself silently, walking over to the lake, where she sat against the tree and cried. It wasn't often that the loss of her mother drove her to tears, not recently, at least, but sometimes it hit her with such a ferocious intensity that she couldn't ignore it. She stayed like that until she heard her name being called, and turned to see Ron standing there awkwardly.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and she wiped the tear tracks with the back of her hand, sniffled and then nodded. He came to sit by her, but still giving her space at the same time.

“I didn't mean to upset you, and if I did, I'm sorry,” he began while plucking out blades of grass, dropping them onto his knee. She blinked at him, realizing that he thought she was upset because they'd been together, and she hurriedly made to correct him.

“No, no, it's not that, really! I am beyond happy for you both, truly, it's just, well, your mother...” and she trailed off, and he looked dumbfounded for a second before cluing in.

  
“Oh!”

  
His ears turned pink at his mistake before he cleared his throat to speak again.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, and she thought about it for a moment, before nodding, She talked to him about everything that was bothering her (though she didn't bring up the glass ceiling, for obvious reasons) like the discrimination, living in a country she wasn't born in without her mother, how she felt like she didn't belong, and by the time she was finished, Ginny and Harry had sat to listen, and Leo was sitting at the lake. Géraldine was beside Ron and the only person missing was Jas, who was celebrating Beltane with her own family in Wales, at her family's home in Swansea.

They were all silent for a moment, listening to the chatter back at the tables, and the crackling of the giant bonfire behind them, and it was Ron who broke the silence.

“You've gone through a lot, and honestly, you're so strong to have made it this far without breaking, and I'm so sorry I didn't see that you were struggling sooner,” he began, but it was Ginny who continued.

“I'm not around often because of game schedules, but that shouldn't have been an excuse not to check in more, after your house elf bill, I assumed you were doing better, and that was wrong, and I'm sorry,” she spoke softly and reached around Harry to squeeze her hand.

“Hermione, I'll say it now, and please believe me when I do, you will always have a home and family with us, no matter what happens, and I'm sorry for all that you've gone through and that we didn't stress that enough,” Harry spoke resolutely, while Géraldine reached around and squeezed her other hand, and she squeezed back. For the first time in a long time, her heart was full, and she was grateful for those that she still had, and though Leo hadn't said anything, he didn't need to, because she knew how he felt already with how he acted around her, always wanting to be by her side.

“Thank you,” she sniffled, freeing her hands from Ginny and Géraldine, wiping at the new tears on her cheeks, “should we go back?” she asked, but both Harry and Ron scoffed at the same time.

  
“Nah, let's all stay here a bit longer.”

  
“Okay.”

Chateau Lestrange – May 3rd, 1947

Leta walked quietly through the halls, coming upon her uncle's office, sidling up next to it while regulating her breathing to try and hear what was being said. She cursed once more her lack of magic that would make this laughably easy, but she had to make due anyhow.

She'd received Slytherin's reply, accepting the deal she'd laid out for him, and was now earnestly, attempting to collect further information that she could use, and well, if she were caught, she could just say she didn't trust them with her future. Not, of course, that she hadn't been eavesdropping from time to time before he answered, just...more so now that she potentially had a life line out of this.

Relations between herself and the rest of the Lestrange family had become strained since she'd turned down her uncle's order for her to marry, so she needed to get creative to find information, and not hearing anything through the door, surmising that a privacy ward was being used, she turned to leave, but as she made to do so, the door opened and her uncle stepped out, she cursed under her breath.

“Leta, why don't you join us, instead of skulking around like a house elf?” he asked, amused, and she slid to turn around, plastering a sarcastic grin to her face.

“Really, I'd love to, but you see, I have urgent plans to reread the same book I've been reading for the last couple of weeks, so, unfortunately not, uncle,” she recanted with fake sympathy. After rejecting his plans for her marriage, the old bastard had warded her from the library to try and make her existence as mediocre and unbearable than it already was. His lips twitched and eyes turned frigid, and he moved sideways to open up the passage into his office.

“It appears you've misunderstood me, that was not a request,” he spoke, expression positively frigid, so she bit the inside of her cheek and obliged him, moving passed with her spine straight and her chin up, into his office. When she entered, she saw her cousin Rabastan Snr, and his son Rodolphus sitting there, watching her with something akin to a predatory stare, she glared in return, and stiffly took the seat to their left. She placed her hands on her knees, and stared resolutely ahead, as her uncle passed around them to sit at his desk. They were all silent for a moment before he spoke.

“I think it's time we bring Leta in on the true purpose of our business,” he began, and she blinked in alarm, what true purpose? She was positive she already knew every sordid detail of this awful family, and her cousin was quick to object.

“What? Are you certain she is trustworthy?” he exclaimed and Ramsey steeped his fingers together, turning his attention to Rabastan.

“Not at all, but as Rodolphus's plan has to directly do with our family, and Leta especially, it is unavoidable, but don't worry, I've taken steps to ascertain that if anything happens, she is liable to go down with us,” he spoke simply, and she felt dread grip her, she had a feeling she was not going to like what she heard, but all the same, this was information that she could potentially use, so she kept her mouth shut.

“Tell me, Leta, what happens when purebloods intermarry for generations,” he asked, tone light, as if he were a professor asking about Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, and she was the student. She looked at him oddly, trying to figure out what that had to do with anything, but decided to bite.

“Using muggle terms, the gene pool decreases, allowing for mutations, causing a variety of problems in further offspring, this is inbreeding, and it is infamous within muggle royal families, as well as purebloods,” she answered, using muggle terminology on purpose to shove their rhetoric back at them, but was slightly caught off guard when he smiled.

“That is correct, now, how do you think pureblooded families, for the most part, have stayed strong through the centuries?” he asked again, a malicious glee in his eye, as if he were leading her to some unfortunate reality she hadn't been aware of prior to stepping into this office. She narrowed her eyes at him and thought back to what he said earlier, to the true purpose of their business. The business she knew very well that had an iron grip on the prostitution and trafficking industry, mainly with muggleborns as a commodity, enough to purposely pull strings from behind the curtains so that their legitimate careers left them destitute enough to seek prostitution as an alternative. The answer soon smacked her in the face, and she wished suddenly that she was ignorant once more.

“We use muggleborns as surrogates and donors,” she whispered, ultimately horrified, how had she not known this? She took a breath and regained her composure, feeling nausea roll in her belly.

“But how? That would make all of the offspring half-bloods, and I doubt anyone would be too thrilled with that,” she asked, disgusted that he seemed pleased that she'd figured it out so fast, “and furthermore, how did I not know about this? How has this been essentially kept a secret?” she continued, thinking there was no way that this didn't outrage everyone involved, purebloods with having to resort to mixing with muggleborns on purpose while spitting on those who began legitimate relationships with them.

“Close, but not quite, dear,” he replied, and gestured to Rabastan and Rodolphus, “care to explain?” and Rabastan turned his head towards her, almost pleased with her discomfort.

“We use blood magic to readopt the offspring fully into the family, erasing any dirty blood, it was why, we as Lestranges, were so adamant in our campaign to have that Riddle boy take the Slytherin seat years ago, because Dumbledore had campaigned to have those magicks criminalized, which went through in 1936, effectively stopping our business for ten years almost, while we tried to undo the ruling,” he explained, before taking a breath, looking to continue, and she listened with almost horrified fascination.

“The problem with blood magic, however, is that it affects the blood, and not the physical features of the child, which is how we've made a literal empire of continuing bloodlines. A request for these...services, requires us to properly curate a match so that no one is any wiser, while the pureblooded parent involved participates in a confidentiality vow, to prevent any leaks in information,” he finished, and Rodolphus now turned to her.

“That is where this becomes a family matter and where you come in, Bella...is of the Black line that has never used our service, and the inferiority has begun to show itself in her two miscarriages,” he started, and she knew immediately that she was going to hate whatever came out of his mouth next, “I've had my eye on a certain...witch, however, her race is more in line with yours, so we will pass the child off as yours, but being unable to care for it due to your house arrest, myself and Bella will graciously “adopt” it from you,” he intoned, and she'd been right, she hated it, and she wanted to vomit, having an idea of who this “witch” was, however, decided to ask anyway, to clarify.

“And who is this witch?” she asked, and she watched a slow smile curl upon his lips, and she had to restrain a sneer.

“Oh, you do not need to worry about that,” he answered flippantly, and she would have argued but feared the slightest resistance would give her position and duplicity away.

“I don't actually have to do anything?” she asked snobbishly, putting on a show to keep them pacified, and her uncle nodded, obviously pleased at her being so agreeable.

“Very well, then. May I be excused?” she asked, and he waved his hand dismissively, allowing her to get up and leave, to make her way back to her room. Once there, she wasted no time stalking towards the loo, barely managing to throw herself at the toilet before the bile came rushing up.

Trafficking and prostitution had already been bad enough, but this? This was evil, and for it, they all deserved to burn. Forcing muggleborns to breed, furthermore, stealing their children from them only so they could be raised into becoming disgusting pureblood supremacists? How did nobody notice? Did anybody care?

She was certainly the farthest thing from a beacon of goodness, and she'd had done some things that had absolutely disgusted her, but this took the cake, and she couldn't abide by it. Thinking back to how her uncle had said that he'd made certain that she would suffer should she betray his trust, and came to the conclusion that she didn't bloody well care. She pulled herself to her feet, flushing the toilet before making to wash her hands and mouth. She then stood there, with her hands braced against the sides of the sink and looked at herself in the mirror.

Her gaze traced the imperceptible crow's feet at her eyes, and the light lines around her mouth, her pointed nose, bigger lips and light brown skin, before sweeping over the curls escaping from her bun. Her life had been a miserable one, at first by her own hand and guilt, and then by others, and she was so tired of it.

It was at that moment that she'd made her decision, she was getting out and she was going to fight against this, no matter the cost, she will have done one right thing in her life, even if it killed her.

She stood straight and dried her hands and mouth with a towel before making her way out of the loo and towards her desk. With little fanfare, she sat and pulled out a sheet of parchment, and uncapped her inkwell, dipping her quill into it and bringing it to the page.

_  
Lord Slytherin,_

_  
Send texts on releasing bound magic, and in the meantime, keep your muggleborn close, I will divulge further detail after this is done._

_  
Regards_

_~LL_

  
Could she just tell him everything? Yes, but that didn't ensure that he would do anything to stop the practice, as a Slytherin by blood, she'd imagine that he'd secure only those that he gave a damn about, that being his muggleborn barrister. She wanted to rip this apart from the inside, and first, in order to do that, she needed her magic, and hopefully, Lord Slytherin decided to move fast, allowing that poor girl to avoid such an abysmal fate.

No, this was the best method, precisely because she couldn't trust anyone to finish this as thoroughly as she planned, and if she didn't make it in time to help the girl, then she would make sure she and any others would escape.

  
This was a promise she made herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took a bit longer than usual to update, the depression likes to hit me real hard sometimes, that doing anything productive is just a 'no'.
> 
> Anyway, here's the new chapter, hope you all enjoyed, things are starting to get a little dark in here, and there are some surprises coming up, so brace yourselves.


	8. Chapter 7 - Yours

**Smut at the end**

Chapter 7 – The Ministry of Magic – May 14th, 1947

His portkey arrived in the Ministry, and with little flourish, Rodolphus Lestrange waltzed out, straightening his robes as he made to leave the office. His businesses in France were doing quite well in this post-war era, he personally managed multiple brothels across both the UK and France, and though France's laws made his more underhanded dealings difficult, the business was prospering sharply due to the lure prostitution and women of the night had on returned soldiers, both magical and non-magical.

Not many knew, but outside of trafficking, the Lestranges have had control over both muggle and magical brothels in almost every major city for centuries, long before they'd even tried their hand in other markets. In fact, their other ventures had never taken off until the British line of the family had started in the 1400s. This was when his ancestor, Romulus Lestrange, saw the rampant effects of inbreeding within pureblood families, which was a practice that had originally been perpetuated by muggle royalty.

At first, the inbreeding had simply resulted in the significant rise in squib births, more so than the severe mutations and illnesses that had come to make themselves known in more recent centuries. During that time, the magical population would simply abandon the child within muggle populations by bewitching whole families into accepting them, before once more attempting to breed viable, magical heirs.

A famous case of this was John of Gaunt, who was left with the then ruling family to be raised as a prince, because despite his lack of magic, the Gaunts had still believed themselves to be superior even then, having married into the Slytherin line in the 1300s, and still believed that their squib son had deserved the best. Rodolphus snorted, much was the same now with the current Lord Slytherin, a Gaunt by blood, believing himself worth more than his blood's station.

His ancestor, seeing the opportunity to build an empire, played on wizardkind's sense of superiority, and their hatred for muggles. Romulus Lestrange had settled in Britain and began his coup for power by birthing the perpetuation of muggleborn objectification, successfully turning their disdain for the ethnic group into consideration for their own benefit.

From there, Lestranges had spent centuries gently guiding the law from behind the curtain to further secure power in their British seat, even going so far as to spend outrageous amounts of galleons through the years to simultaneously keep the perception of muggleborn inferiority, strong enough, at least, to discourage the abandonment of blood supremacy. It, of course, worked seamlessly, as pureblood families paid top galleon to 'save' their legacy, and truly, what were the Lestranges offering but a service?

Unfortunately, with the advancement of years, came the advancement of 'human rights' that had caused them to put a pause in their work, incensing his later ancestors to shift the business model into a completely underground function, to the point of using a great extent of their wealth to blackmail themselves out of Azkaban.

Knowledge of the business only then became known to the head of house, and heirs henceforth, necessitating the need for unbreakable vows between themselves and every client to ever use their service.

As for muggleborns, they were generally lured with money, and truly if they remained willing, the payout was enough for them to live comfortably for a few years, however, they would be obliviated after the transaction had been completed. And if they didn't? If there was a demand for a specific muggleborn? Then it was usually at the tip of a wand that they complied, usually to be disposed of once their usefulness had been spent.

He entered the lift, making a request for the Atrium. He was heading home, having invited Mulciber for drinks. As he listened to the subtle 'dings' of the lift, his mind drifted towards his current...muse, for lack of better word. He'd known about her for a while, having had to listen to Bellatrix, his then, rather new, wife, spit the mudblood's name for daring to be associated with the half-blood Slytherin she was obsessed with.

He let her have her psychotic rambles, amused at the hypocrisy she showed on the daily in her burning hatred for muggles, and yet, her eager acceptance to fuck a half-blood. He wasn't surprised in the slightest, of course, the line of the Black family that had reared Bellatrix had refused their services for centuries, truly believing in the superiority of their blood, purposely blinding themselves to the inferiority of their offspring, almost proudly calling it 'the Black madness'.

He scoffed, a ridiculous boast if he'd ever heard one, however, an appropriate moniker that it was, as more years passed, so did more of Bella's sanity. She was intelligent, with a focus as sharp as a knife, he'd give her that, but her enthusiasm for sadism and cruelty grew to almost worrying degrees.

As for Miss Granger-Riddle, his interest in her had first sparked days before Riddle won his Slytherin seat, with the Skeeter article that had debased her entire character to nothing but a whorish French immigrant. Under his uncle's orders to turn the opinion of the article, because they needed Riddle to win the seat, he had sent her the undiluted bubotuber pus with the helpful note, through the muggle mail, on the assumption that either she or Riddle would have erected a mail ward. This had worked out wonderfully in their favour, because his tip to the Daily Prophet that had a reporter and cameraman at St. Mungos for an unrelated article, managed to capture the moment Riddle helped his poor, injured muggleborn cousin, turning him into the sympathetic character that won the Slytherin seat.

At the time, she'd only been marginally interesting, and so, he hadn't cared much for her existence aside from the curiosity of whether she would eventually end up in prostitution or not. But it was only when Slytherin had all but claimed her with his words, and proceeded to duel Malfoy, leaving the younger scion scarred for life, did he truly begin to look at her, and it was her house-elf bill passing that had ignited his actual interest.

She was a beautiful witch, but more than that, she'd become a forbidden fruit, a polished little jewel protected by a basilisk, and he'd been disappointed at the unlikelihood of ever being able to taste her. That all changed, however, when Slytherin made a move for power, disregarding the existing hierarchy that favoured him and his family, all of a sudden, his grandfather's favour upon the boy-lord had evaporated, and it was looking like her protection would follow suit.

Coincidentally, this happened around Bella's first miscarriage, igniting into his mind, a plan that, although outrageous, would sate this newfound lust of his, while also hitting multiple other targets at once. Chiefly, would be to cripple Slytherin but praying on an obvious weakness, taking her and daring him to act, Secondly, making use of Leta, which his grandfather was more than pleased with, and thirdly, giving him the heir he needed without putting undue stress on Bella. Though, it had only been when he caught her in one of these very lifts, that he'd brought the idea to his grandfather, gaining his blessing to finally begin his planning.

The lift opened, and he made his way to the floos, pulling his pocket watch out to quickly check the time, it was only five in the evening, Mulciber should be arriving by floo around six. Placing the pocket watch back, he padded his other cargo, a commissioned potion from Lord Severus Prince, a brew dedicated to temporarily raising the drinker's libido. It was something he'd paid for Miss Granger-Riddle before ever meeting her in the lift, but now he was uncertain if he even wanted to use it on her.

At first, he'd wanted to avoid a messy first time, but after witnessing her smart mouth, he felt like he wanted to encourage her to fight him, he wanted to see her fire, and he wanted to smother it. He wanted to see her fear, plain as day when she realized what the rest of her life would consist of. He played with the idea of letting her go after the child was born, but also considered keeping her, so for now, while he decided, he'd use this little concoction tonight on Bella, a perhaps if she was willing, Mulciber could join them as well.

  
He reached a floo, and grabbing a handful of powder, he tossed it into the fireplace, walking through to what would undoubtedly be an eventful evening.

Diagon Alley – May 18th, 1947

Hermione browsed through fabrics at Twilfitt & Tattings, having gotten Leo's measurements during the spring hols to pick up some new robes for him, as he couldn't stand shopping, being uncomfortable with a seamstress taking his measurements. She was doing this because she noticed that he'd gone through another growth spurt, and his current robes were at his ankles, and his sleeves were above his wrist bones.

She'd told him she'd shop for him on her next leisure day, and sent it to him through the mail, so here she was, looking through fabric swatches and books on current robes style. She would have liked to get him some muggle clothes, but living with Tom in that great big castle made that difficult, as Tom generally disliked anything muggle in the castle (she rolled her eyes at this, because technically, she was muggle made, but decided not to get smart with him because causing problems on purpose with him always made her regret it somehow).

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye when she went to look at different swatches of fabric on the opposite table, turning to it, she saw what distinctly looked like an elf ear dart around a set of pre-made hanging robes. Another thing, it looked to be that Niti was following her, she thought she'd been hallucinating at the shoe store, but she was sure of it now.

She sighed and continued to shop, adding socks, pyjamas, and underclothes before going to the register to pay. She placed down the same day items, as well as the swatches for robes with the measurements, making sure to have at least five school ones made, and a few different coloured casual styles. She paid for her entire order, placing the receipt with the pickup date in her pocket, and shrinking her purchases to fit within her bag. Once finished, she turned from the register and stepped forward a few paces.

“Niti, please come out,” she spoke calmly, and a few silent seconds later, the elf revealed herself nervously. Hermione's face softened, taking in Niti's shuffling, it was clear she was still expecting to be punished, even though her law specifically made corporal punishment illegal.

“Yes, miss?” she asked, straightening her small robes, and Hermione sighed, not finding it in her to be angry or even annoyed with her at all, instead, she decided to direct her ire where it belonged.

“Is the lord home?” she asked, not wanting to say Tom's name, as she was still in public, and at Niti's nod, she asked for her to apparate her home once they left the shop, which the elf agreed to nervously. As they were leaving, Hermione felt like she should reassure her.

“I'm not angry with you, I just need to talk to him urgently,” she explained with a patient smile, causing the elf to relax marginally.

Once they cleared the shop and stood outside, the elf held her hand and with a pull at her naval, she was standing back in the entrance hall of Alcazar Deslizan. She thanked Niti, and requested that she bring her bag to her room, before making her way to Tom's office, ready to give him a piece of her mind. She didn't understand what his problem was, she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself (sure, she hadn't practiced or read up on defensive techniques since school, but she was certain she was skilled enough to get out of danger and get herself to safety), furthermore, it angered her that he, apparently, thought she was in some kind of danger and yet, wouldn't tell her what it was.

She knocked on his office door before opening, though she knew she wouldn't find him in any compromising positions due to the vow, that first time was enough to make her wary forever. She saw that she had his attention as she went to stand in front of his desk, crossing her arms and pursing her lips at him in annoyance.

He placed his quill down and steeped his fingers together, elbows on the desk, giving her his full, undivided attention.

“Yes?” he asked, as if humouring her.

“Why is Niti following me?” she asked, watching as his borderline amused expression turned into a frown, “and you are not going to punish her in any way for being caught, I just want to know why,” she continued, giving him a pleading look that he seemed to study for a moment.

“For safety,” he replied finally, and she scoffed.

“Against what!?” she snapped, trying to keep her rage in check, “I want answers, Tom, I can take care of myself, but not if you don't tell me what the threat is!” she ranted, and his expression quickly became unamused, but she didn't stumble or retract.

He stood up and walked towards her until he stood chest to chest with her, causing her to have to crane her neck to keep eye contact. His arm wrapped around her quickly, pulling her flush against him and she felt the pull at her naval. She closed her eyes as the office disappeared around them, and when she opened them again, blinking rapidly to stave off the nausea, she realized they were standing in what looked like the duelling room. She made note of the scorch marks on the floor, shivering at the proof that he'd clearly used it and wondered briefly against who. She looked back up at him, slightly confused.

“Why are we here?” she asked, and his arms unwrapped themselves from her person and he took a few steps back.

“You say you can take care of yourself, then show me,” he spoke softly, and she could feel the magic around him almost pulse with anticipation.

“You want me to duel you?” she asked, almost shocked, she hadn't duelled anyone properly since school, and she wondered how skilled she would be now, out of practice as she was, but thought of all the possible threats against her person and decided she may as well rework the muscle now that Tom was offering, rather than later. He nodded and she noted the vicious calm that flashed in his eyes, while his magic crackled around him, as she took the requisite amount of steps back until they both were in the bowing position.

They bowed and turned away from each other, pacing themselves to the proper positions, before turning and taking stance. His hand was out, instead of behind his back, and he indicated that she had the first move, by quickly jerking his pointer and middle finger together, so she obliged him.

She sent a quick C _onfringo_ his way, and before it reached him, which he deflected, she disillusioned herself and moved to the right. Seeing that she was gone, she watched as he cast _Agua Eructo_ , causing water to spread itself along the floor, and seeing that she wouldn't be hidden for long before the water reached her feet, she silently hurled a S _agittatum_ at him from his right side.

This surprised him, and since the arrows were fast and very physical, he dodged by spinning forward, but while he did that, she doubled the water level with _Agua Erecto Duo_ , controlling it to form a giant wave to crash into him.

He quickly shielded himself with a _Protego Maxima_ , and once the wave passed, he jumped using _Ascendio_ and (she assumed, as all his spellwork was silent) a _Morbi a me_ to keep himself floating high above the ground, he snapped his wand quickly in a downward slashing motion.

Quickly understanding that he was about to cast _Fulgur Percutiens_ to electrocute the water she was standing in with a lightning bolt, she quickly cast a _finite_ on the water, and a E _vanesco_ to vanish any further droplets, before throwing herself out of the way to avoid the actual bolt that sparked where she'd been standing, as her _finite_ had also undone her disillusionment (which had probably been his plan).

She watched as he skilfully floated down from where he'd levitated himself, and before his foot touched the ground, she conjured a flock of canaries with _Avis,_ quickly hurling the birds at him with _Oppugno_ , which he protected himself by conjuring a hard shield with a combination of _Protego Maxima_ and _Fianto Duri._

As the birds smashed into nothing against his shield, she whipped her wand in a circular motion above her head, conjuring a whip of flames from the tip with a silent _Ignis Verberaque_ , before striking at him, causing the rope of fire to wrap itself around him.

Harry had always drilled into them to conjure and cast fast with curses and spells that would distract their opponents, to keep them busy by forcing them to protect themselves, which is why she stuck with projectiles, hoping for an opening in which she could disarm him.

She noticed he was unbothered by the rope of flames that were wrapped tightly around him, and surmised that he'd cast a _Frigore Flamma_ , the flame freezing spell. She started the wand movements to the disarming spell, but then he'd moved faster than she'd ever seen him before, and she realized right then that he'd been playing with her.

He was out of the ropes with an _Emancipare_ before she could mentally get to the 'm' in _Expelliarmus,_ dodging before her disarming spell could hit him, but mid dodge, he cast a _Flipendo Tria,_ which conjured a small tornado, and before she could protect herself, she was sent hurling backwards, hitting the wall.

She gasped at the impact but noticed that it didn't feel like she'd hit the stone, understanding immediately that he'd cast a cushioning charm before she hit it. Before she could clear the spots from her eyes, her hands were bound above her head against the wall with a _Fulgari_ , and her wand ripped itself from her hand and went flying towards Tom, who caught it nonchalantly. She was annoyed, here she was tied up, panting from exertion, and he barely looked like he'd been inconvenienced, she levelled a scowl at him.

“Alright, you won, will you let me out of this?” she asked, exasperatedly pulling against the bonds that held her wrists above her head. He titled his head at her, observing her, though his expression was inscrutable. His wand flashed as she blinked, and her robes ripped along the side, he'd sent a D _iffindo,_ lightly nicking her waist, she winced, snapping her eyes to the new injury and tear to her clothing before bringing her gaze back to him.

“Tom! What are you doing!?” she shrieked at him, but he only regarded her pensively. She pulled at the bonds at her wrists with a vengeance, to no avail.

“What do you think happens when you're disarmed?” he asked, his voice low, taking measured steps towards her. She warily watched as he came closer, not answering his clearly rhetorical question.

“You say you can take care of yourself, but here you are, helpless,” he murmured, looking down on her now. He traced his wand over her collarbone, and she decided she was really not enjoying this lesson of his. She glared at him as he brought his wand down gently, popping the buttons to her robes with a silent _Diffindo_ , gently so that he wouldn't injure her, but enough to slice through her brassiere, as she could feel it loosen from the front.

She opened her mouth berate him, but he hushed her, bringing his hand up to caress a breast that was now exposed from his destruction. Her eyes closed and she couldn't help as her breathing hitched when he began fondling her nipple into a peak, but snapped open again and she gasped when he pinched her, hard.

“Ow! Tom!” she exclaimed, pulling at her restraints some more, only to yelp when both of his hands gripped either side of her robes, where they were still buttoned up to her navel, and tore them. They now hung limply from her arms, and she was exposed entirely in the front.

“I am teaching you a valuable lesson here, Hermione,” he spoke gently as he kicked her legs apart, bringing one of his hands down into her undergarment. He slowly began to thrust his fingers into her while she wriggled in place, feeling the tension immediately begin to build in her core, and she couldn't stop herself from grinding down on his hand.

“What lesson is that?” she gasped out when he hit a certain spot in her that made her see stars.

“That regardless of how prepared you think you are, there will always be someone more skilled, and when they win, who knows what they'll do to you,” he explained, leaning down a kissing her lips gently, but she could barely hear him through the fog of her building orgasm. Just when she was on the precipice, he withdrew his hand and stepped back, leaving her hanging.

“Do you understand?” he asked, and she gaped at him, watching as he sucked on his fingers, taking more steps back. She swallowed, took a deep breath to regain her composure and answered, bringing up his avoidance.

“I understand, but you still haven't told me what the danger is,” she pointed out, using her bound hand to physically point at him.

“It doesn't matter what the threat is if you are not skilled enough to fight it off,” he answered, deflecting her again. She stamped down her ire and decided to humour him.

“Okay, so what's your solution? Just have an elf follow me around all the time?” she asked while trying to shake her arms awake, still annoyed that he hadn't let her cum. He regarded her pensively again, but she could see his gaze sweep her from head to toe, pausing briefly on her chest with a hunger in them. This gave her an idea, so she decided to bargain with him.

“I don't appreciate the lack of trust or privacy with that solution, so instead, why don't you duel me, let's say...once a week, while I study more defensive techniques, so you can personally gauge my improvement?” she recommended, and he raised an eyebrow at her, a light entering his eye that only made her feel a tiny bit nervous.

“And what do I get out of it?” he asked and she juggled ideas. She was generally open to anything, so if she made it sexual only, he'd just point that out, and then an idea hit her, so she decided to go with it, hoping it didn't bite her in the rear.

“After each duel, including today, you can ask one thing of me, no limit of what that thing can be,” she offered, and his eyes widened, so much so that she could practically see the gears turning in his mind.

“I accept,” he consented before she could take it back. She wondered again if she would come to regret this, and figured, yeah, she probably would, but kept her calm facade anyway. Suddenly, her arms were free, and she brought them down eagerly, glad to get the blood flowing through them again.

“Come here,” he ordered, his tone low, sending a fire right to her core, and cautiously, she did, stopping in front of him, wondering what he had in mind now.

“Give me your left hand,” he murmured, and she did so, looking from her hand to his face and back again, curiously. What he did surprised her though, perhaps it had been because his fingers had been inside her not five minutes ago, but she'd kind of expected him to demand a handjob or some other sexual favour.

Instead, he pulled the Gaunt ring from his hand and slid it onto her ring finger, the metal of the band shrinking until it fit her.

“I want you to wear this from now on, this is the thing I ask of you today, and you cannot take it off for any reason, ever,” he intoned, and she looked worriedly at it.

“Okay, dare I ask why?” she asked, bringing her hand up to study it, analyzing the odd black stone embedded in it. It was warm, but she supposed that was because it had just come off his own hand.

“Nope,” he replied, with a pop to the 'p'.

“And what will the stuck up purebloods think when they see me, a lowly muggleborn, wearing your family ring?” she asked, and his arm reached around her, under her ruined robes, his hand grabbed her bottom and pushed her into him. She felt, once again, the pull at her navel, and when they materialized into his room, she was about to snap at him for now warning her, but found herself pushed backwards onto hid bed.

She pulled herself up onto her elbows and watched as he slowly knelt between her legs, hands on her knees as he spread them.

“What they think...” he began, with a kiss the inside of her thigh, “I couldn't care less what they think.” another kiss, and she couldn't help the moan that tore from her throat. Tilting her head back, and closing her eyes, she felt him unclip her stockings and pull her undergarments off and down her legs, closing them while he did this, before opening them again and kneeling before her.

He yanked her hips closer to him and brought his tongue slowly from her entrance to the tip of her clit. Her elbows gave out and she laid back, letting him do as he pleased.

“What they'll know, however, is that you are mine” he stated simply.

  
“In every way.” he licked.

  
“In every shape.” he sucked.

  
“In every form.” he thrust his fingers.

  
She was panting at this point, and her eyes were snapped shut in ecstasy, as her previously denied release started to rebuild with a vengeance, and all she could do was whine and grip at the sheets, while he continued to build her up, until finally, she came, her legs shaking and her hands in his hair.

_  
'Good girl.'_

  
She heard his voice everywhere around her but assumed that he'd simply spoken and she was having an out of body experience from the orgasm she'd just had, despite that he was busy lapping all of her up.

When he stood, and quickly removed his robes, as he leaned over her, she grabbed the locket from around his neck and pulled him down to kiss her, groaning when he used that moment to thrust up into her. A fog settled in her mind, and she hooked her ankles around him at the base of his back, until all they were doing was rocking together. With every thrust, she swore she could hear him say _'mine',_ even when his lips were on her, but she didn't question it.

Her second climax was building fast, and her arms were looped tightly around his shoulders. With every ' _mine_ ' she heard, she replied with a ' _harder',_ until his thrusts turned hard, slamming into her and shuffling them both backwards onto the bed. They went like this until she pressed against the headboard, and she was sure his grip on her hips would leave bruises. Finally, she stumbled over the most amazing cliff, and on the last ' _mine_ ', the only word out of her mouth was:

  
' _Yours_.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	9. Chapter 8 - Earth Blood

**Smut at the start of the chapter.**

Chapter 9 – Alcazar Deslizan – June 13th, 1947

  
Tom awoke to the chirping of birds, the ones that began their songs before the sun had even fully found itself in the sky, that if he were to get up and look out the window, he would see the gradual haze of purple to orange in the horizon.

That wasn't the only thing that technically woke him though, Hermione was curled into him like a cat, and she'd twitched hard enough to start him, this being an occurrence since he'd given her the Gaunt ring. At first, he'd thought them to be nightmares, but after low moans dragged themselves from her throat, raspy from sleep, he'd known it was the opposite.

It had been a month he'd gotten her to wear it, which was to say nothing of how her bargain had surprised him, he hadn't thought that she would offer something so ambiguous, yet clever at the same time. True, he could ask anything of her, but the wording was specific to 'after a duel', so at the same time, he could not, because if he requested something completely against her nature or interests, she could refuse to duel him again, never giving him the chance to take advantage of the bargain again.

He was content, though, his first request to give her the ring had been more than enough. It had come from three reasons, the first was the test the dynamics of the bargain, the second was to observe her constant exposure to a Horcrux, to look for any inconsistencies in her behaviour, and thirdly, it was a direct response to the threat of Lestrange.

Tom had assumed that having a Horcrux on her person at all time would affect her negatively, due to the significant amount of dark magic within one, but, she seemed fine, besides the only exception being that his seventeen year old soul piece was a randy bastard, otherwise, while awake, there didn't seem to be much of a conscious response.

This didn't necessarily discourage him, as it was a piece of his soul, it probably felt right at home on her finger, quite like Kaa was hardly bothered by being a Horcrux herself, as she was his familiar. He'd, of course, had his doubts that the Horcrux wouldn't simply attack her, as it had been created months before he'd even met her, so the soul piece technically wouldn't have known her, but it seemed that wasn't the case and he surmised that it had to do with being on his finger for the entirety of the years he'd pursued, and eventually won her.

Another moan tore from her lips, and she wriggled back against him. He groaned, and rolled onto his back, forcing away the urge to take her while she slept. His hand crept down and he stroked himself, watching as she too shifted onto her back, and her hand went between her thighs. He brought his other hand there too, and finding her absolutely slick, he made up his mind and curled his arm under her, turning her until they were both on their side again, crushing her back to his front. His hand that had been on his shaft, went to the apex of her thighs, and the arm that had curled around her waist, travelled up so he could pinch her nipple hard, enough so that it woke her.

“Ah!”

He pressed kisses along her shoulder in an apology, and she craned her head in the pillow more, to give him more access to her neck. She whimpered as he inserted his fingers into her, giving her a few thrusts, and as she began moving on his hand, he removed it. Having an idea, he reached into the drawer nearest to him and pulled out a glass dildo, before manoeuvring her onto her stomach and pulling himself to lie over her.

“Hold your ankles,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder, pleased when she complied with only a whimper. He cast the lubrication charm on her backside, allowing him to slowly insert the glass phallus, listening to her groan lowly once it was in. He then positioned himself at the entrance of her cunt, rubbing his precum along her lips, before sliding himself in.

He groaned low in his chest, feeling the other object against the thin membrane, and began pumping, earning a low cry from his witch with every thrust. So far, giving her his Horcrux had possibly been one of his better moves, as it had sky-rocketed her sexual appetite, especially on lazy mornings like this where she was practically insatiable, and he briefly wondered what the sensations would feel like if she were a Horcrux herself.

He moaned and picked up his pace, the thought driving him to incoherency. Hermione's legs started to shake and tense while she clenched around him sporadically as if trying to keep him inside, and he knew she was close, so he changed his position, instead, he knelt, pulling her hips until her legs were over his thighs, controlling her movements until his pumping became fast and hard.

She was chanting 'please', with her eyes screwed shut, clenching on him harder and harder, until she finally came with a cry, and he felt her loosen. He kept going until he reached his own peak, slamming into her one last time with a grunt.

They stayed like that, panting, for a few minutes before he removed the dildo, and then, carefully, his own softened member. She let go of her ankles and pulled her legs together until she was half on her side and back. She looked at him, still kneeling as he reached for his wand, casting the contraceptive charm on her womb, and reached out to pull him into her arms silently, to which he tossed his wand to the side once done with it and complied. He wrapped his arms around her and laid his head on her chest, listening to her breathing as it evened. He glanced at the clock to see that it was half-five, and though he would have preferred to stay like this for hours, he needed to be in the Wizengamot chamber by half-six for the final Chief Warlock election.

He gave himself another ten minutes, listening to her sleep, as her heartbeat thudded softly against his ear, before he untangled himself from her, determined on his decision for the day. He silently showered, so as to not wake her, charming the facial hair from his face, and dressed. He finished drying and styling his hair, before taking one last look at his witch in bed, who was now holding his pillow against her and left.

Ministry of Magic

  
Tom exited the floo and into the Atrium, charming the ashes from his robes without stopping, making his way to the lifts. Today was the day they'd see a new Chief Warlock elected, and between the four candidates, it was the two he was least thrilled about, that he'd have to vote for one. The two delegates to choose from were Albus Dumbledore and Ramsey Lestrange, which had left Tom stuck between a rock and a hard place.

He had closely followed the public elections, trying to put out feelers to which way the vote would slide, Dumbledore had won the popular vote through the public, of course, being the benevolent deputy-headmaster, transfiguration professor and defeater of Grindelwald, he was the most familiar of the candidates, as he'd taught a good deal of the public, at least, for those who went to Hogwarts.

Lestrange, on the other hand, had more power than Tom initially thought, as he'd come up behind Dumbledore in the popular vote, and he didn't doubt that they were garnered through galleons and the tip of a wand. He entered the lift and bade the operator to go down to court level, where the election would take place in the same chamber he'd won his seat in.

He thought of all the possible scenarios to the outcome of this election, he wasn't too worried about himself, but he'd be lying if he'd say he hadn't thought that Hermione might be affected. Though it had been a month since he'd gotten to test her skills for the first time, and though he'd won, he had actually been impressed with her capabilities, which were considerable for a witch that had spent the last two years cruising one trauma after another. That first fight had been informational, he had observed her and had been pleased that she had known exactly each of his moves, though his casting had been silent, which had proven to him, that she'd had the knowledge already, and what he almost didn't want to admit was that he'd won mostly because he had the practice and technique, while she did not.

So far, since then, they had only duelled twice, and he was pleased to find that her repertoire of spells had increased (which had aroused him more than anything, causing him to use his two favours for more sexually-driven activities) so, regardless of how the vote turned out, he was generally satisfied that she could (as she previously claimed) take care of herself, at least while she was alone. He thought back to Leta's newest letter, which he'd complied after ruminating on the situation, eventually sending her the desired text requested in her previous letter, to which she'd written back promptly explaining Rodolphus's 'plan' for Hermione. When he'd read it, a fury like no other had rolled through him, and it clarified what he'd already suspected: that Ramsey Lestrange had decided to move against him.

He exited the lift, taking long stride towards the election chamber, considering all the pieces on the board. Ramsey Lestrange was a fool if he thought he could herd Tom around like a piece of cattle to the slaughterhouse, and furthermore, that he wouldn't retaliate viciously upon knowledge of his plans for Hermione, because what he didn't know, was that cunning, ambition, and self-preservation were in his very blood and that he would do exactly the opposite of what was expected of him.

He nodded his head in greeting to a few members of the Traditional Party, climbing the steps to take his seat. He let his gaze wander, taking in the filling seats of the opposition, his mind turning back to the meeting he'd had a week ago.

  
“ _What do you know of Leta Lestrange?”_

  
He heard the gavel hit the podium, and his attention was brought back to the current Chief Warlock, Griselda Marchbanks, who would be retiring today after the preferred candidate had been chosen. He watched as she introduced the session, and announced the election, as well as the candidate's names, and soon, it would come down to a vote.

First, were a session of questions for Lestrange and Dumbledore, their plans for the Wizengamot, what type of legislation they preferred, as well as addressing concerns to the ICW and how they would go about it. They were asked their purpose for running, what laws they would like to see implemented, and oh, how it tickled him, as these questions were but a farce, as every seat in this house already knew who they were voting for.

  
“ _She is a clever individual, cunning, even. At her core, I've no doubt that she is a good person, and tries to see herself as so.”_

  
There were fifty Wizengamot members of the regular persuasion, which was not including Tom's seat, that had ten votes itself. So, the vote could be split twenty-five to twenty-five, and whichever way Tom voted, could sway the election. Now, there were sixteen in the Progressive Party, sixteen in the Traditional Party, and eighteen in the Swing/Neutral Party, so depending on how many votes Lestrange bought (something Tom had no doubt of) he could potentially win this even without his input.

Tom was broken out of his reverie by Marchbanks gearing up to call the vote. His dilemma had been that even if Tom voted for him (which he might have done if he hadn't suspected the subterfuge), there was the absolute certainty that Lestrange would raise the vote to strip him of his political power, especially considering the amount of power he had as Lord Slytherin. It was likely that now that he refused to fall in line, Lestrange was beginning to see him as a threat, and was no doubt looking to neutralize him.

  
“ _Let's make a deal.”_

  
“Raise wands in a vote for Albus Dumbledore for Chief Warlock,” Marchbanks called out, and slowly wands began to raise.

  
“ _What do you have in mind, Tom?”_

  
Tom raised his wand.

  
He'd be lying if he said the incredulous looks on some of the faces around him wouldn't keep him warm for years to come. With his wand up, he glanced subtly at Lestrange, who regarded him with murder in his eyes. Now, Tom, without a shadow of a doubt, hated Albus Dumbledore with every fibre of his being, but Lestrange (whether he knew that Tom knew or not) had made the mistake of threatening him, of threatening Hermione, and though this would drastically change his position within the current social hierarchy, Tom had every intention of wrangling that respect back where it belonged. This was but a minor setback, and for now, he had to play at being the snake he was, to keep his power, to fight another day.

It was certainly one of the bigger gambles of his political career, but after reading Leta's letter, and finding out for certain the final candidates for Chief Warlock, he'd gone to see Dumbledore, asking the questions that would finalize his stance, finding out if Leta Lestrange was leading him around by the nose. Once his old professor had confirmed that she was likely a genuine person, he had decided to show him the letters, and he'd watched as Dumbledore's eyes had switched from wariness of himself to disgust when he read the letters. With that, they had struck a deal, that Dumbledore would not raise a vote to strip Tom of his seat, and Tom would vote for him to keep Lestrange out of the position of Chief Warlock.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that tosh.

The older wizard had tried to wrangle more out of him, in that he wanted help in bringing down the Lestrange business, but had become mum when Tom's demand was to keep Hermione out of it entirely. This went to show that though he was disgusted with the Lestrange plans for Hermione, he was not above using them and her, for the opportunity it presented, and that, to Tom, was unacceptable.

“Raise wands in a vote for Ramsey Lestrange for Chief Warlock,” Marchbanks called out, though it was merely a formality at this point, as Dumbledore's count was already at a thirty-five, while Lestrange's was at a paltry twenty-three. And like he'd assumed, the gavel hit the podium once more, and the cameras were flashing from the media seating alcove above them.

  
“Illustrious Wizengamot, I present to you, your new Chief Warlock: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, all rise.”

Bolt Hole – June 13th, 1947

  
Jas poured over duplicated copied of Ministry archives within the office that she shared with Hermione, hoping to finally close in on something substantial (and even if copying archives was illegal, who was going to stop her privileged pureblood arse anyway?). When Hermione had requested that she research Nobby Leach, she'd had no idea the difficulty of the task she'd agreed to, as almost everything to do with him had been scrubbed from public record.

She had spent months scouring every single archived newspaper available from the years 1860-1869, only to find whole days or weeks missing. She'd thought about speaking to said Minister, but had ultimately decided against it, as she'd no idea which of the other Minister portraits had others they could travel to.

She'd eventually come to the conclusion that the only potentially unbiased source she could consider, would be a literal historian, and who better than Bathilda Bagshot? Jas glanced at the clock, it was still only eleven in the morning, and she'd requested a meeting, to which she was expected to floo over in about an hour.

The older witch was practically ancient, having been born in 1799, she was a hundred and forty-eight years old, and so she theorized, if anyone knew anything, it would be her. She looked down at her other copied files that were specifically of every muggleborn from Nobby Leach's birth year of 1830, to the year of 1851, averaging that the youngest muggleborn to be about eighteen on the year Leach disappeared in 1868.

Of course, these files told her nothing if any of these witches or wizards had actually been associated with Leach, or this group of muggleborns that Hermione believed he lead, so Bagshot was really her only lead to find out who these individuals really were, and what happened to them.

Separating the files by relevance, she glanced at Hermione's desk curiously, not for the first time wondering if she had written anything down pertaining to her conversation with Leach's portrait, but feeling as if having a look would be intruding and neglectful of the trust her friend put in her. Hermione had often come by to use the office in the last couple of months since they'd spoken, assumingly to keep her research away from Riddle, and Jaismine respected her privacy, but...what if she had something that she could potentially use in conversation with Bagshot?

She glanced warily at the clock, seeing that she had only another forty minutes until she needed to leave, so she steeled her resolve and decided to take a quick look. Shuffling over to the other desk, she gave it a once over, and it was, of course, pristine, with quills laid perfectly straight and flat, while parchment paper was stacked neatly to the left, and there was also a photo of what she assumed was Hermione and her parents, though they were a bit blurred.

She tapped her nail decisively against the top of the desk, building her resolve, before opening the top drawer and picking up the stack of papers towards the back, behind the front section of knick-knacks. Flipping through them quickly, she found that they were mostly notes on her new bill, and put them back, and as she was about to close the drawer, something caught her eye. A glint of something red, frowning, she daintily pulled it out, however, she nearly dropped it when she realized that it was a vial of blood, with a very familiar lock of coils curled around it with a sticking charm.

Clearly, this was Hermione's blood and hair, and a curl of anxiety settled in her stomach when she considered the implications. If she knew her friend, and she did, it was possibly her version of a contingency plan, and it reminded Jas of how dire the situation they were tackling was. Glancing towards the clock again, she noted it was high time she left, so she tucked the vile back into the drawer, simultaneously tucking the knowledge of its existence away as well. She closed the drawer and head back to her own desk to pack her notes into her bag.

As she did that, her mind was preoccupied with this latest discovery, it concerned her about how truly dangerous this mission they'd decided to take on, was, and she hoped this venture with Bagshot was fruitful because she didn't want to consider the contrary. She slipped her bag onto her shoulder, and with one last wary glance at Hermione's desk, she head for the floo.

Bagshot Cottage – Godric's Hollow

  
“Now, what brings you here, dear? Shacklebolt, is it? I remember now, your family came to the isles in the 1640s, after escaping the New World, taking the name Shacklebolt to celebrate their freedom,” Bagshot droned, her voice gravely in the way only really old people were capable of, and Jas felt her eye twitch in irritation. She knew her family's history well, so it annoyed her to have it recounted to her face, especially when it was told in a way that undermined all that her family had contributed in terms of magical discovery within the last couple of centuries. She didn't voice her ire, however, as she still needed information that Bagshot potentially had.

“That's correct, however, I am actually here on my own noble cause, and that is to officially put to rest the reasons muggleborns exist, so that we may also put the discrimination they face to rest as well,” she began, having decided to stay within the same realm as the truth, as there was no telling how sharp this old witch was, or how fast she could unravel any fabrication.

“In my research, I ran into some misinformation, or well, a lack thereof entirely. I've become interested in reading up on our only muggleborn Minister, Nobby Leach, but unfortunately, an alarming amount of articles and information from his time in office is missing from Ministry collection,” she continued, and she witnessed a grave expression enter Bagshot's old eyes, which were a cloudy blue from diminishing sight. The older witch sighed, shakily placing her teacup back down onto her saucer, while Jas practically held her breath in anticipation.

“Norbert Leach, you say, funny how he came to be known professionally by a nickname originally meant for friends and family,” she began, smiling slightly, “yes, I remember him, we'd spoken on multiple occasions, as he'd been interested in history in his youth, also with the same goal in mind as you, though he'd abandoned interest in simple academics when he became an activist and a politician,” her tone became tired.

“I'm not surprised they tried to erase Leach's history from the Ministry, because what he'd managed to do, nobody had ever tried before, and his success had frightened them,” she paused to bring her teacup back up to her lips, while Jas sat there enraptured.

“What did he do?” she asked, hoping she didn't seem impatient.

“He created an organization within our political system for muggleborns, for their rights, freedoms, and futures, to fight discrimination. You name it, and his group fought for it, and that terrified a lot of people who didn't want to change their ways,” Bagshot relented finally, pausing for a moment as Jas sat there, shocked. She'd never heard anything like this before, how could it have been so thoroughly wiped from public memory? It hadn't even been a hundred years ago.

“You say it was a group, what was it called? What happened to it? Do you know who was in it?” she couldn't help the rapid-fire questions, but Bagshot hardly seemed to care, in fact, she seemed amused with her enthusiasm. In response, she shakily drew her wand and pointed to an armoire on the far side of the room.

“Accio box 1850 and 1860,” she commanded, and from the aforementioned armoire, two boxes came floating over to gently place themselves on the table beside their teacups. Bagshot spelled the lids off and Jas was looking at more boxes shrunken within, titled by years.

“Hmm, I think it was...1859...yes, September 1859,” she dictated, and Jas watched fascinated as the box floated out of the 1859 box, and with one more swish of her wand, it was back to its regular size. She waved for Jas to have a go at it, and she didn't need to be told twice, as she lifted the lid, looking in awe at stacks of newspapers for that month, all in mint condition.

She picked at the folded corners and flipped through them quickly, speed reading the main headlines until one caught her eye. It was a large group picture, and in bold letters was 'EARTH-BLOODS' with a tagline beneath that read, 'Radical Activists or Domestic Terrorists?'

She looked up, stunned, at Bagshot, who was busily making herself another cuppa.

“Ma'am, may I make a few copies of some of these?” she asked, to which the older witch agreed. So, that's what she did, for hours, discussing different theories and historical contexts with Bagshot while she mined slowly through the boxes, eventually coming to fill her bag with over a hundred different copies of different papers, mostly the ones she hadn't been able to find in the Ministry archives.

By the time she got home, it was well past five in the evening, and she had at least one hundred and thirty-three different newspapers piled on her desk, her visit with Bagshot proving invaluable in her research. Setting her cup of coffee down, she took one glance at the pile and cracked her knuckles, hoping to at least get through a quarter of them tonight.

It was how six hours later, she had definitive notes on the muggleborn group called the “Earth-Bloods” a name clearly coined from the slur purebloods had for them. She had a vague list of main members, while there were at least a hundred sympathizers of different blood-statuses. She had Norbert “Nobby” Leach (born in 1830) as the presumed leader, and twenty other muggleborn members, but as of 1865, seven in the “inner circle” that went as so:

  
Mason Harper – Born 1832 – presumed second in command

Ella Jackson – Born 1836

William Carter – Born 1837

Grayson Jules – Born 1841

Aubrey Niels – Born 1850 (the youngest member, joined while still in school)

Abigail Bancroft – Born 1830

Carlisle Bronson – Born 1843

  
Looking at the clock, and seeing as it was close to midnight, she began packing all of her research away into a warded drawer, it was still Sunday after all, which meant she had work the following day, but she felt like she'd made some decent headway so far. It was once everything was packed away, when she got up, that she felt something attack her wards.

Instantly, she placed her empty coffee cup down, that she was going to bring to the kitchen, and ran out into the sitting room, already muttering incantations to strengthen he protections. Her effort was futile, however, as just minutes later, they came crashing down, hearing a crack, she turned around to find Riddle standing in the middle of the room, having apparated in.

Disoriented from the shattering of her wards, that before she could lift her wand to hex him for breaking and entering, she was bound and on the couch, her wand in his hand, and he was kneeling forward onto his knee, with his leg propped up beside her, eyes glowing a furious red.

“Where is she?” he asked, tone low and menacing, confusing Jas, until it dawned on her. He was looking for Hermione, suddenly, a spike of fear gripped her spine, settling heavily on her chest and it was not because of her current predicament.

“What do you mean? Are you talking about Hermione? Isn't she with you!?” she asked, her urgency and volume rising with every question, struggling against the bindings that kept her arms tied in front of her chest.

“If she was, would I be here?” he sneered, eyeing the room disdainfully, and she restrained herself from snapping at him. Hermione had decorated the sitting room, and he'd know that if he gave actually gave a troll's behind about her, to Jas it was further proof that Riddle didn't care for her friend as a person, but only as an object that orbited around him. She bit down her fury and indignation on Hermione's behalf and willed herself to work with the bastard because chances are if she wasn't with him, then something was clearly not right.

“Well, she isn't here, when did you see her last?” she asked, hoping to build a timeline, but he merely stared at her, unbelieving, and irritated by his audacity, she snapped.

“For Merlin's sake, I'm telling the truth, and if you don't cooperate we aren't going to find her, so will you answer the damn question!?” she snarled at him, “we need to determine how long she's been potentially missing, did you go to the Aurors?” she asked and watched as his jaw twitched, which told her that he hadn't.

“Well, do that, and let me out of this!” she sneered, and surprisingly, he did, and she held her hand out for her wand, glaring at him when he stalled in giving it back, “You go to the Aurors, and I will check with the rest of her friends to see if they've seen her today, I'd rather you not go, since Géraldine is pregnant, and if you bust in there like you did here, you'll probably cause her to miscarry,” she grumbled, glancing at her watch, cursing as she noticed it was actually midnight, and that nobody would be up to answer a floo call at this time, but when she looked up again, he was gone.

She cursed again, and began redoing her wards, once that was done, she tried to calm her worry and think of her happiest moment. But it was as if at that moment, she'd absorbed what was happening, and her eyes began to burn, anxiety darkening the edges of her vision. She sat down and gathered her wits about her, breathing deeply until she could think straight, bringing multiple happy memories to the surface, one of her latest ones being Hermione smiling at her while petting a silk moth, she breathed once more.

  
“Expecto Patromum!”

  
The formless silver light pouring from her wand eventually took the form of a type of albatross. She looked at it, fascinated, she'd never been able to cast a corporeal patronous before, but her need to get a message out, to ensure her friend's safety, had given her the strength to see it through. She lifted her wand to her face and spoke against the end, where the grip once, as she'd read about, picturing the recipient in her mind. Harry's face flashing in her thoughts, she spoke against the handle, willing the message patronous to find him, three crucial words.

  
“Hermione is missing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry y'all, took me a couple of days to get this up cause I've been working pretty much every single day, and ya, im all tuckered out n stuff. (I also work again later today, but I just wanted to type and post this quickly) ((also, that's not to mention that my mental health has gotten so bad that im considering going on meds again, at least for the rest of the pandemic, though id been off them for 2 years 🙃 ))
> 
> Here are some 'well, shit' moments, Tom voting for Dumbles cause he's THAT spiteful, Jas is digging and Hermione's missing (next chapter will be her perspective).
> 
> As for Shacklebolt history, I think it goes without saying that JKR having one of her VERY FEW canonically black characters being named 'Shacklebolt' is _really_ not a good look (but I mean, after rereading the books, it's kinda on brand for her, really) so I tried to give it history in which them having that (incredibly presumptuous) name, makes a tiny bit of sense, but also trying not to make it the only thing they are known for (hence Jas's irritation)
> 
> That's pretty much it, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter!


	10. Chapter 9 - And a Makeshift Mace

Chapter 9 – Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – June 13th, 1947

Albus leaned back in his chair, taking a tiny break in the hours of marking papers, giving Fawkes a dry look, the phoenix had found it's way to his side after Credence passed, who'd been killed by Gellert himself when he changed sides in the midst of a raid in 1932, since then, he's become a recognizable figure in Albus's day-to-day. A cloud of melancholy passed over him when he thought of the younger man, for the life of misery and suffering he'd lead in his search for family.

He had indeed been a Dumbledore, the son of his (once thought) spinster aunt, Honoria, who had been his father's older sister, though to this day, neither he nor Aberforth had any idea who the father was (not to mention Abe still refused to talk to him), all they knew was that their aunt Honoria and her infant son had perished in the tragedy of a sinking ship in 1901. It had only been later, somewhere in 1929, that Newt Scamander regaled Leta's tale to him, of her leaving her crying brother for a more silent one at the age of six, unaware that the ship was sinking, during a passage to America in 1901.

At first, he hadn't considered the possibility of Credence being his much younger cousin until months later, when Gellert paraded an “Aurelius Dumbledore” on his arm, during a gala in France, and furthermore, when rumours of the young man having a phoenix as a familiar. That was when he'd truly begun to accept it, the legend between his family line and phoenixes were, indeed, true, though it hadn't happened in centuries.

As if understanding the direction of his thoughts, the phoenix trilled softly before hiding his head under his wing, allowing Albus to turn his attention back to his desk, which was a mess of student essays, and paperwork for his newly acquired Chief Warlock position. It was certainly a lot of work he was taking on, as he was already the Transfiguration professor, Deputy-Headmaster, and now Chief Warlock, which came with its own responsibilities, he wondered if he was in over his head.

He thought of his role of mediating on upcoming bills, criminal trials, as well as for the UK, becoming the landmass representative within the ICW, and shook his head, he needed this position, especially if he wanted anything to change. He supposed he was just reeling in shock, as a week ago, he had not expected the reality of how he would win, as for a moment, when he'd heard that his competing candidate was Ramsey Lestrange, he'd been worried that he might lose the election. This would have been a possibility that would have had devastating effects on their society as a whole, he was sure, so that his salvation had come from the young Lord Slytherin was a bitter lemon to swallow.

It would be completely dishonest of him if he said that he hadn't been both wary and surprised when Tom contacted him to meet, simply because he had been under the impression that he was one who would certainly have benefited the most should Lestrange win, but he had surprised him, as instead, he had wanted to make a deal. He was, of course, still wary of the young man, but also felt that possibly, for a bit, that he'd been too harsh in his opinion of him, as clearly, though he may not be aware of it, he cared a great deal for his muggleborn cousin.

Thinking of Miss Granger-Riddle, the notes that Tom showed him had certainly caught him off guard in his planning. He hadn't considered that Leta would be willing to cooperate, let alone initiate such a valuable trade of information, though it was telling that of all people she'd chosen to contact, she had chosen Lord Slytherin. This either insinuated that she did not (rightly, at that) trust either himself, or the Scamander brothers any longer, or that she needed the cooperation of someone with the same level of cunning as her to truly make her plan work.

Leta aside, on the subject of the notes, it confirmed what Albus had suspected for almost fifty years, officially, that the Lestranges were the culprits of the grand miscarriage of justice that was the treatment of muggleborns in the UK.

He remembered it clearly, it had been the spring of 1899, months before the tragedy that had seen innocent Ariana murdered in the crossfire of their duel, he'd been a young, foolish man, so in love with Gellert and taken in by their grand plans for the world, for the superiority of their magic, that he'd accompanied him to a 'soiree' in France. It had been the first time the truth of Gellert's character had disturbed him because the 'soiree' had ended up being an auction, and auction for muggles and muggleborns.

Albus hadn't known, hadn't even suspected when they were given masks before they entered the room, and furthermore when they were forced to vow never to speak of the events that they would see in that room, he had simply followed Gellert blindly.

But even then, could not have stopped the roiling of horror in his stomach when he'd realized exactly what he'd walked into, and furthermore, at the barely contained glee that he could see in Gellert eyes, behind the mask, while he'd gripped his thigh as if he'd forgotten that Albus's own mother, Kendra, had been muggleborn.

It was months later that had seen Ariana killed simply because he'd been too enraptured by that young man who had promised him the world. His eyes had first been forcibly opened during that horrifying night, as muggleborn after muggleborn, some as young as eight, were dragged out, with bidding prices shouted from the crowd, but he had stayed, like a coward, until the price had become detrimental to him in the form of his sister's murder.

He remembered being unable to recognize anyone, due to the masks, that the ceiling of the room was entirely made of glass that showed the brilliant constellations in the night sky, and he remembered how bruising Gellert's lips and grip had been all over them, once they'd retired home for the night.

As for the deal he made with Tom, it had absolutely been worth the risk, because though to this day, he could not speak of what he saw that night due to the vow, nor had he truly known who'd been behind it for fifty years, he now had names, and the power to truly do something about it. Lestrange had gotten away and pulled the strings behind the curtain for far too long, and though he could not get Tom to agree in taking advantage of the opportunity presented (a decision that, simultaneously, he could not blame him for), he couldn't help but think that it would be the only opportunity that they would ever see again.

Albus looked at the clock to note that it was almost midnight and he realized how long of a day it had been, today he had won Chief Warlock, and tomorrow, well, perhaps tomorrow, after his lessons, he would write Miss Granger-Riddle. He would write her because although she had staunch supporters in the form of Miss Shacklebolt and Lord Slytherin, she also seemed to want to help people, and he thought that, if he explained, she would see that her cooperation could save and bring justice to so very many lives.

He nodded to himself, packing away the paperwork into one warded drawer, and student papers to the corner of his desk for further consideration tomorrow. He then sat back in his chair once more and looked towards Fawkes, who watched him curiously.

  
“We certainly have our work cut out for us, don't we?”

Alcazar Deslizan – June 13th, 1947

Tom sat at the head of the table in his dining hall, it was mid-afternoon, a couple of hours after the Chief Warlock election, he had the inner circle of his knights around him, and the air was practically brimming with tension, while he stayed calm as a night's lake. He took in each of them, Bellatrix to his right, was watching him with a wariness that was unlike her, and neither Rodolphus or Rabastan was present (for obvious reasons).

Orion was stoic as always, though he had a curiously knowing expression, across from him, Abraxas was frantically tapping a manicured nail against the table, Thoros to his left had his hands steeped together, a pensive look on his face, and Antonin sat there with a typical expression of chaotic enjoyment. Terrence and Graham both looked unbothered, and he supposed they would be, as their families were still predominantly neutral, so his vote wouldn't seem as outrageous for them, while Frederick and Evan both sat patiently, waiting, he assumed, for some kind of explanation, and lastly, Marcus looked annoyed with confusion written all over his face, which drove him to break the silence.

“Okay, I'm going to say it, what in Merlin's sagging testicle was that?!” he crowed, and Tom had to give him credit for his straight forward approach. Abraxas stopped tapping his nail, and leaned his chin into his hand, staring at him as if to prompt an answer faster, which Tom considered for a moment. Should he tiptoe into the waters, or dive right in? He glanced idly at Bella, the biggest threat to privacy due to her married relations, and decided on a course of action.

“If you wish to know my reasons, I call for an Unbreakable Vow between all of you and myself, that anything said in this room, stays here, and does not leave your mouths again once you leave,” he began nonchalantly, watching as they exclaimed in outrage, but then quieted as Orion held his hand over the table to Tom, nodding at Bellatrix to be the bonder, to which she hesitantly agreed. Seeing Orion do it, they all hesitatingly followed suit, and it was once every vow was done, lines on their hands that were bold against their complexions that they settled and allowed him to speak.

“Ramsey Lestrange has decided that he will move against me,” he stated simply, giving them a moment for it to sink in, Bella, to his right, steeped her fingers together, he delicate eyebrows furrowed in a pensive look.

“How?” she asked.

He turned subtly to regard her, visibly giving her his full attention, and not intake of air was heard from any of his knights, in anticipation of his answer.

“Actually, it has a lot to do with you, Bella, did you know that your husband's family specializes in the eradication of pureblood inbreeding by forcing the mudbloods in their business to be surrogates?” he asked lightly, and she took a moment to consider his words, to which he let her, knowing he didn't need to spell it out for her.

“For a moment, it sounds like you're insinuating that you care what happens to mudbloods,” chimed Antonin, where Tom merely moved his gaze to him, cocking an incredulous brow.

“Not in the slightest,” he snorted, before turning his attention back to Bella.

“Have you figured it out?” he asked, instantly knowing when she had, as her eyes widened. She looked at him, disgust flashing across her features, though at which part it was directed, he couldn't say.

“Leta,” she ventured, and he nodded, while the others, besides Abraxas and Orion, who seemed to have figured it out, continued to look confused until Marcus, exasperated, asked for clarification.

“He acted against you by targeting Miss Granger-Riddle, who is publicly acknowledged as your third cousin from the muggle side of your family,” Abraxas answered, and Tom had to restrain a snort, despite the other wizard hitting the nail on the head.

'Of course, he would have looked up the relation itself,' he thought wryly.

Even though the Daily Prophet had written an exposé on Hermione, back when he'd still been vying for the Slytherin seat, they hadn't dug as deep to find out how far back the relation went. Abraxas had probably been disappointed in finding out that the only relation he shared with her was a great-great-grandfather born in 1775. Moreso that their shared genetics was under one percent, a staggering percentage lower than even most pureblood marriages, which averaged anywhere from five to twelve percent due to the centuries of inbreeding in the already small gene pool that was the UK (though he digressed, it was better than the Gaunt line before him that had forty-five to seventy percent. He had checked all of it, of course, back when he'd realized his interest for what it was).

He turned to him, regarding the disdain on his face.

“You are correct, and with this information, had I voted and aided Lestrange into winning the Chief Warlock seat, he would have had ample support in stripping me of my political power, which tells us one thing, can anyone guess what it is?” he asked, amused that they all seemed to be catching on.

“That he's threatened by you and the potential you hold,” Orion commented, and Tom nodded.

“What I don't understand is how you know this? Bella said 'Leta', so does that mean Leta Lestrange is your informant? If so, how are you so sure she is genuine with this information?” Thoros asked, and it was a good question, but he didn't need to answer, as Bella did it for him.

“He's correct,” she began, bringing a hand up to massage her temples, “I felt that Roddy was oddly focused on your mudblood, as he'd mentioned her by name a few times, but hadn't thought anything of it, aside from general contempt. But you asked me about Leta months ago when I told you about my miscarriage, and I had said that there was no one who hated the Lestranges more than her.” Tom hummed noncommittedly and tapped his nail against the table, essentially mimicking Abraxas's earlier agitation. He hadn't known that Rodolphus had actually mentioned Hermione to Bellatrix in any context, having assumed him to be smarter than that, but it was good to be vindicated.

“I apologize for the duplicity, Bella, but yes, I was aware of the possibility of Ramsey Lestrange withdrawing support from me for a few months now, and I made the best decision for all of us,” he paused, taking a moment to consider all of them, “and yes, I mean all of us, I'm not so naive to think you've all aligned with me on some thestral-shite reason as being Slytherin's descendant, you all have your own personal goals and ideas that you've found you'd have an easier time to reach if there was the destructive force that my political power aims at the current hierarchy in place,” he continued, giving them all a knowing stare, to which a few of them nodded.

“So, my decision to vote for Dumbledore, rest assured, does not mean that I've suddenly grown a bleeding heart, or do not have the same goals in mind that I've had since we started this group years ago. We wanted power and, eventually, complete separation from muggles and muggle influences, to preserve our culture and the sanctity of our magic, and I have full intention to abide by that, all while aiding you in your own goals, should you come to me with them,” he finished, to a few relieved looks.

Of course, he made no mention that he kept the Riddle weapon business as a steady income, though he knew he had to find out a solution to that before it became blatantly called out when they tried to actually implement their plans in the future. Despite Helen having changed his general regard for muggles (though a part of him still considered her an exception to the rule) it was true that he still believed that their world should be separated entirely from muggles, the war proving, with six million deaths of a certain faith, that they were dangerous and could not be trusted, and his control over Riddle arms, even in the last year, could attest to that.

“Any more questions?” he asked, and it was Evan who raised his hand. He'd been quiet, both during the meeting and in general since his cousin Vinda was given the dementor's kiss, after the war. The Rosier family had certainly taken a big hit with Grindelwald's loss, simply due to their association with her.

“On the subject of mudbloods, I understand that we want separation, however, what about them? Clearly, eradication will get us nowhere, Grindelwald has shown us that, and no offence to your person, Tom, but with you bedding one, it isn't convincing that you don't consider them a threat to this plan,” he stated, and Tom had to concede that he had a point. There did need to be a plan for them, and Grindelwald's method _had_ failed spectacularly, so he took a moment to ruminate on the subject before answering.

“I think there isn't enough information before we decide right away, not on mudbloods themselves, but all the plays that consist of them in one manner or another, like the Lestrange business, and how many countries this practice has taken root. Furthermore, my personal...preferences are irrelevant to our goal, because those will stay the same regardless.” this seemed to pacify Evan, allowing them to continue onto other topics, as an early dinner was served, which became discussions to significantly subvert Dumbledore as Chief Warlock.

It was once they had all left, that he head to his office, calling an elf when he arrived.

“Is there the evening post for the Prophet?” he asked while glancing at the clock, it was six in the evening, the elf nodding as it charmed the tea set to settle in front of him on the desk, popping away to retrieve it, and when it came back, he inquired after Hermione, as he hadn't seen her since this morning. It replied that she'd left for Diagon Alley around half-four, and hadn't come back yet, and thinking she'd probably gone to one her Gryffindor friends, he settled in to read the Prophet, and once done that, moved towards the piles of letters that had found their way through his mail ward to his desk, no doubt from the disgruntled members of the Traditional Party.

It was nearing eleven when he'd finished reading and responding to each letter, sitting up straight and cracking his neck and back, he moved to stand, but was distracted by Niti, Hermione's elf, apparating into his office. He raised his eyebrow at it, feeling a migraine begin at his temples.

“I is sorry to disturb you, sir, but miss hasn't come home, she be telling I's that she go out only for a moment to pick up a book,” she said, wringing her hands worriedly, but he was already up, putting away his desk. He would be worried, but he was confident in her abilities, and he was positive Lestrange wouldn't try something this fast, it was too soon and too rash for him. She was probably with Shacklebolt, that hag, so he would go to the flat first.

As a precaution, he tried to reach the tracking charm he had put into the Gaunt ring, only to find nothing, unnerved, he tried to ignore the niggling in his chest that something was wrong, forcing, instead, anger to take it's place, allowing it to boost his magic.

  
With that, he closed his eyes, picturing the flat's hallway, and apparated.

  
Unknown Location – June 18th, 1947?

Hermione opened her eyes from her uneasy sleep, disappointed that she was still where she was. It had been (roughly) five days since she'd been imperiused to walk outside of Flourish & Blotts and towards Knockturn Alley, to where she'd been restrained, a burlap sack tossed over her head, and she'd felt the unpleasant sensation of side-along apparition.

She knew vaguely that it had been five days by the sleep schedule she kept and how often she was given food. There was also a tiny window near the ceiling, just out of her reach, that illuminated the room, but she had no way of knowing that it was a real window at all, and not simply a charmed space on the wall. She looked around once more, taking in her shoddy accommodations, it was clearly a cell, rather small in size, with a cot, a small side table where food appeared (likely through elf magic), a self-cleaning bucket, and the washbasin with a pitcher on a shelf, that seemed to refresh the water on its own.

She hadn't known whether to trust the food, but a voice in her head (that sounded suspiciously like Tom) insisted that she eat to keep her strength, because if whoever kept her here wanted to harm her, they would have done so already, and not being able to fault that logic, she ate. It was nothing fancy, some chicken broth and bread, but it would give her energy to make an escape when she found a way to do that.

So far, no one had come to speak to her, so she spent her time cataloguing everything in the cell, to see if any of it could be used as a weapon, for whenever her generous host made their appearance, as well as trying to figure out why she was here in the first place. The first thought was that 'le plafond de verre' had caught up to her, and it remained a likely reason, as she had nothing to discredit it. Secondly, it was about her specifically, perhaps residual disagreement or resentment from her bill, or even a case she'd worked. And thirdly, was Tom, now, she didn't know explicitly if he had any enemies, but she figured it would make sense for them to target her, considering she wore the Gaunt ring that was still on her finger.

That was another thing, she'd been stripped of her wand, her robes, and even of the pins that had been in her hair (she was glad there wasn't a mirror, she dreaded to think what it looked like), but the ring was still on her hand. This led her to believe two things, that whoever was holding her here, hadn't been able to take it off, and that she was somewhere that was blocking the tracking spell that she knew Tom had placed on the ring, paranoid arse that he was, especially considering he hadn't shown up yet.

Hermione looked towards the metal door, it hadn't been once opened, and she was starting to suspect that there was a sound-dampening charm, because she heard nothing outside of this cell, and no matter how much she threw herself and banged her fists against the door, nobody came. She hoped Jas had found her blood and hair, hoping that if she did, it would lead them to her, but then again, she didn't even know where she was, she could be on the other side of the world, and furthermore, she could be under a _Fidelius_ for all she knew.

She pulled her knees to her chest on the cot, willing herself not to get discouraged, as well as willing the burn behind her eyes to face. Just because she didn't have her wand, did not mean she was helpless.

With that, she got up and looked around once more. She'd already tried breaking the table, but it was charmed unbreakable and stuck to the floor, the bucket was a light metal and also stuck to the floor, while the washbasin was ceramic, but charmed unbreakable. She looked at it curiously, picking up the pitcher, she emptied the water into the matching bowl, and swung it at the floor, only for it to bounce and land. She then looked towards the cot, already knowing the frame had the support of springs and bars because she'd looked there for anything to help her pry open the door, but she hadn't tried taking it apart yet.

Certainly, she should be able to, even if it was charmed unbreakable because nothing was being broken by removing a few screws, so with a huff, she dragged the thin mattress onto the floor and looked closely at the springs. All of the metal was old and a bit rusted, so she would need to be careful not to cut herself while taking it apart, but began trying to unhook a few springs regardless. Their buoyancy was stiff, but she managed to unhook one from the frame. She dragged the mattress back up onto the cot, and held the spring in her hand, and looked back towards the pitcher that was still on the floor.

An idea formulated in her mind, it could either work beautifully depending on if anyone ever walked through that door alone, or backfire horrifically if they weren't. She decided to take her chances and pulled her thin, cotton shift over her head. She stood there naked for a moment before shuffling the fabric in her hand until she was at the hem, and with a deep breath, she tore it apart, hoping to get a clear strip. Thankfully, since it was cotton, the threads came apart generally easily, and in a vaguely straight line, and soon enough, she had a decent strip of fabric. Satisfied, she slipped her shift back over her, and sat down on the cot, reaching to bring the pitcher into her lap.

She tied one end of the fabric to the spring, giving her a handle, while the other end she tied to the handle of the pitcher, and with that, practiced swinging her makeshift mace to familiarize herself with the control of it. Once she got it down pat, she placed it back on the shelf but angled so that whoever came through the door should be none the wiser.

She then lied on her cot, and not sure what else to do with her time, she fell into another uneasy sleep.

A few hours passed like that, where her anxiety had her springing back up awake every couple of minutes, her dreams were vague and foggy, and all she could recall was Tom's crooning voice, with the warmth of his hand at the back of her neck. Food had come, like clockwork, and she'd eaten it, before lying back down, when a few hours after that, the sound of metal grinding awoke her, like the sound of keys in a keyhole.

With her heart in her throat, she was on her feet, her 'mace' gripped in her hand. When the door opened, letting in a bright light that momentarily blinded her, she swung, not taking any chances to let the moment of surprise pass. She aimed a bit higher than her height, assuming her host to be a man, and therefore taller than her, and she felt, more than heard, the pitcher collide with something hard. Her heart sank as she heard a grunt, immediately swinging again, this time actually being able to make out the familiar hair on the head her pitcher weapon collided with. They fell onto their knees and she swung her weapon a third time until they fell forward onto their stomach, unconscious, the door still open to the hallway that was mercifully empty of anyone else.

She looked down at her captor, surprised when she nudged him onto his back, that it wasn't who she thought it was. The silver-blonde hair was telling, but she knew it wasn't Abraxas Malfoy simply because half of this man's face and neck was burnt.

  
Lying in front of her, unconscious, was Draco Malfoy.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise? 
> 
> haha?


	11. Chapter 10 - Soy Her-Mee-Oh-Nee

Chapter 10 – Potter Manor – June 18th, 1947

Harry jolted awake as a crack reverberated throughout the library, and he looked for the source, confused as to why everything was blurry before he realized that he didn't even have his glasses on. Shuffling his hand around the table, moving books and parchments until he finally felt them, he slapped them onto his face and once more looked for the disturbance.

His hackles deflated when all he found was Sai, his grandparent's elf, placing biscuits and tea on the low table by the couches, bangles clinking from her skinny wrists as she smiled at him encouragingly.

Five days, it had been five days since Hermione had gone missing, since Jas had sent him that Patronus at midnight, five days that they'd been looking for her. With the blood sample that Jas had (he'd shaken his head, briefly, at Hermione's preparedness for any event, but was thankful all the same), they'd managed to track her general location to a remote area in the south of France, close to Nice, but the property (he assumed) she was held in was cloaked in powerful wards, so strong that the area simply looked like empty mountains and trails. They found out the hard way, as well, that whenever they got close, they were then instantly transported to different locations, almost whole cities over, with no memory of the last hour.

He and Ginny, who had taken a small leave of absence from the team to help, had been going through dozens of Potter family grimoires, looking for anything to subvert the wards, and it was currently...he glanced at the clock... five in the morning.

He looked around for Ginny, and couldn't find her, so he assumed she went back to the Burrow to freshen up, as neither of them had slept very much the past couple of days. Jas had been going through the Department of Mysteries archives for anything she could use, while Ron was at work, caught up in the red tape between the British and French Ministry to gain clearance to begin investigations in the south of France, while also requesting access to a property census for the area. Meanwhile Riddle, after opening the missing person case within the Office of Investigations, had essentially disappeared from the public eye.

He loathed to even think it but had it not been Riddle to report and open the case, Hermione's missing status would have been buried, just because she was a muggleborn. It was the biggest thing he was critical of when it came to the career he'd chosen, which had been a decision he'd made practically as a child because he'd wanted to follow in his father's footsteps.

Essentially, the Aurors took their orders from the Head Auror, which was currently Rufus Scrimgeour, and he then took his orders from Madam Amelia Bones, who was head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Unfortunately, Madam Bones then had to listen to the Undersecretary of the Minister for Magic, an absolute toad of a witch, Dolores Umbridge. And while Spencer-Moon was a decent Minister, Umbridge seemed to call the majority of the shots and had a habit of subverting Madam Bones' authority over the Department to dismiss 'useless' cases for more priority ones, usually on the threat of cut funding (and by 'useless' it usually meant cases that were not pureblood related).

As for Hermione's case, his father was given it, but that hadn't stopped him, Ron, Ginny and Jas from doing their own thing to help find her. So far, they'd tried everything, Ron had even gotten in contact with his brother Bill, who had been a cursebreaker before the war had gotten really bad (he'd ultimately decided to stay a professor when Victoire was born) and even he'd been puzzled as to the nature of the wards.

They had even tried sending a Patronus to Hermione, though it was likely it hadn't even reached her, and it was looking that if they didn't find a way to reach her, a way into the wards, the only choice was to stand at the ready if Hermione found a way out. To Harry, this wasn't good enough, because if it had been any of them, he was sure Hermione wouldn't have stopped until she found a solution, so he was going to do the same.

It was as he was heading back to his table of books and papers, with a fresh cup of tea that Ginny practically ran into the library, red-orange hair in complete disarray (that he was hankering to run his fingers through) and wildness flashing in her brown eyes.

“I think I figured it out!” she exclaimed, her tone breathy as if she'd sprinted from the floo, which seemed to be the case. Harry put his teacup down, something akin to hope blossoming in his chest.

“Figured out what?” he asked, trying not to sound suspiciously wary.

“I was at home, having tea with mum, and I was putting that Dirigible plum jam that Luna gives us on some toast, and it made me realize!” she started, pacing back and forth, running a hand through her hair.

“Realize what?” he asked, not quite catching the point she was tossing his way.

“Luna!” she exclaimed.

“Right! Luna!” he gasped, before stopping, “what about Luna?” he asked, confused, while she rolled her eyes at him.

“We haven't been able to figure out the wards, right? Which made me think, why?” she began, coming to sit in the chair across from him, and not wanting her to lose her train of thought, he nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“Well, they must be a type of ward we're unfamiliar with, a type of magic we're unfamiliar with, now what other types of magic are we unfamiliar with?” she asked, and he thought for a moment as Sai appeared at Ginny's side with a fresh cup of tea, made to her liking when it hit him.

“Elves! But what does that have to do with Luna?” he asked, as Ginny thanked Sai, and turned her attention back to him.

“Who are the Lovegoods known to be descended from?” she asked, and he immediately knew the answer.

“Easy, the Fae, or Fair Folk,” he paused, “Do you think the wards are Fae magic? All the way in the South of France?” he asked, and she snapped her fingers at him excitedly, nodding frantically as she took a generous sip from her tea.

“Well yes, the French have their own variation of Fair Folk, but that's not all! What family is also said to descend from Fair Folk, _and_ came from France?” she asked, and he frowned, a flash of strong dislike racing through him.

“Malfoy,” he replied, and stood up, while Ginny blinked surprisingly up at him.

“Where are you going?” she asked, as he was already putting on his robes over his trousers and button-up that he'd abandoned on the couch the previous night.

“To the Ministry, I'm telling my da this, he's on the case and he should be in the office,” he replied, heading towards the door before Ginny raced and stood before him, where it was then his turn to blink in surprise.

“Not like that you aren't, you look and smell like you've been sleeping in a barn for the last couple of day, go shower first and then we'll go together,” she ordered, and he was about to argue with her that he smelt fine, but as he raised his arm and got a whiff of himself, he had to concede defeat, heading instead, to the room he had here in the manor.

  
It was half an hour later when they both stumbled through the floo, making their way to the lifts, and onwards to the Aurors office. The ministry was still rather empty, being only six in the morning, as was the office when they walked in. Harry led Ginny to his father's office, knowing with certainty that he'd be in, as he usually started his day at around five in the morning. As they arrived, Harry knocked before opening the door, not bothering to wait for a signal of permission, and was surprised when not only his father's gaze met his, but also that of Rufus Scrimgeour, Kwame Gamp, and most shocking, Tom Riddle.

“Mr. Potter, it is startingly unprofessional to enter an office with a closed door without permission, regardless that it's your father's,” Scrimgeour began, though the tiniest upturn to his lip belayed his supposed annoyance. Gamp, on the other hand, did look annoyed, a frown settling onto his face, dark eyes unamused, Harry assumed he was here as the liaison to the investigations office while working on Hermione's case, which also explained Riddle's presence as well.

“I apologize for interrupting, but Ginny and myself, well, mostly Ginny, had come up with a theory on the wards,” he began, glancing at Ginny who nodded encouragingly.

“Oh, and what was your theory, Miss Weasley?” Riddle asked as if humouring her and not actually expecting a serviceable answer, sending a flare of anger through Harry at the perceived disrespect.

“Well, Riddle, since you've asked so nicely,” she began, putting emphasis on his previous muggle surname, though he hasn't gone by it in over two years, probably because she knew it would irk him, and Harry was reminded once more that Ginny didn't need him to fight her battles, pride settling on his chest with the thought.

“I theorized while thinking of a friend, Luna Lovegood, a friend of mine, whose family descends from the Fair Folk, that, what if the wards are mixed with Fae magic? Even a residual amount would make our own magic almost unrecognizable,” she continued, and Harry had to stamp down his smugness as Riddle's eyes widened the tiniest fraction, as if he'd realized where Ginny was leading the conversation.

“It made me think, what other wizarding family has boasted such connections? Who also most definitely has property in France?” she asked, and the frowns on his father, Scrimgeour, and Gamp's faces deepened.

“That is a heavy accusation, Miss Weasley,” intoned Gamp, and Ginny was about to retort when Riddle stood from his seat.

“A heavy accusation, but a potential lead nonetheless, I defeated Draco Malfoy in a wizard's duel last October, which left him with burns, so he would have the motive, like a sore loser...” he paused, addressing Harry's father, Scrimgeour and Gamp, “I will look in my library to see if there is anything I can find on Fae magic and potentially how to disable a ward that incorporates it, I will update you if I find anything.” and before anyone could respond, he was out of the office. Scrimgeour shook his head, his hair and beard swaying, reminding Harry of a lions mane, but it was his father who spoke out.

“Well, it's the only lead we have, why don't you two go home and get some sleep, if this leads anywhere, I'll let you know.” and Harry was ready to argue, but Ginny hushed him, dragging him out of the office with a quick thank you to the other wizards.

“Ginny, what? I can't not to mor-” he began, but she cut him off by placing a finger against his lips.

“I'm not suggesting that we don't, but your da is right, you look dead on your feet, we'll sleep for a bit, and in a couple of hours, if Riddle doesn't find anything by then, we'll talk to Luna, and we'll be in France whether they figure something out or not,” she assured him, and he reluctantly agreed, leaning his forehead against hers, where they stood there like that for a moment, before pecking him on the lips and leading him to the lifts.

Alcazar Deslizan – same day

Tom entered his library, fury simmering through his very bones, it had been five days since Hermione had gone missing, or, well, found, but unreachable. He'd tracked her general location within hours of reporting her disappearance to the Aurors and filing the case with the Investigations office, using her hair (to which he had plenty, seeing as she shed almost at the same rate as that demon cat of hers), but nothing he'd done could pinpoint her exact location, or reveal the structure she was in. He'd been at the Ministry this morning to check on the progress that both Auror Potter and Detective Gamp had with the French Ministry, having shared his discovery with them days ago, only to be smacked in the face with a theory he should have considered.

Well, that was a lie, he had considered it, but upon speaking to Abraxas, he dismissed it, assuming Draco to be too much of a weasel to be so bold, but now with Miss Weasley's theory, he found it difficult to refute.

If this turned out to be the case, he knew now, that he would have to kill Draco, as there didn't seem to be a way around it, but for now, he needed to find information on those wards (which he had to grudgingly give credit to Potter and his weaslette for discovering in the first place).

He'd visited the location and had attempted to breach them once, with no luck, as it had transported him to downtown Nice and had attempted to erase his memory, though he'd managed to fight that aspect with a combination of occlumency and an offensive counter-attack to the source of magic with legilimency. Fascinated by the combination of magic, he'd spent the last couple of days looking through the Department of Mysteries archive for mention of mixing such a specific type of mind magic with warding (to which he was certain Shacklebolt had also been looking through the same section, though he hadn't been sure due to the shrouded hood), as well to no avail.

Now though, with this theory, he may be able to get somewhere, as he held an advantage that no one else did. He approached Salazar's portrait, nudging Kaa gently to the side (which did nothing due to her considerable size) and looked up into his ancestor's face.

_  
§_ _What do you know of the Fair Folk and their magic?_ _§_

It was hours later, somewhere around six in the evening that Tom stood back in Auror Potter's office, relaying what he'd found out about the wards, having spent the last ten hours thoroughly buried in books that Slytherin had pointed him towards. He'd read them to the best of his ability, his grasp of Irish Gaelic stronger now than it had been years ago, and any part he'd been uncertain of, he'd read to his ancestor to translate back to him in parseltongue, eventually allowing him to piece together a more coherent understanding of the subject.

The wards needed a person of Fair Folk descent to willingly communicate with it, as from what he'd read, the magic was alive, in a way theirs was not, and sentient, also in a way theirs was not. It had been with great difficulty that he'd had to admit to himself that he would need Potter's help in this respect, well, more Miss Weasley, as she'd already mentioned her acquaintance being a Lovegood, and undoubtedly, they would be more inclined to lend their aide having been asked by a more familiar, friendly face.

He had also processed, that if they found Hermione today, that this whole event had the potential to ruin the Malfoy family in a not insignificant manner, furthermore, that his relationship with Hermione would certainly be affected to a certain degree, as well. She knew full well of his rather telling endorsement of them, mainly through his silence on their more nefarious plots, and he had no doubt that she was likely discovering a great deal of them at this moment.

He found, however, that he did not care for that though, which probably had something to do with the sick anxiety that had nestled itself uncomfortably in his gut five days ago, that has refused since then to cease plaguing him. It had him wondering what state he'd find her in, and dare he say it? Worried? He felt certain, that if so much as a hair from her considerable mane had been subject to harm, that it would send him into a homicidal rage, that of which he wasn't quite certain of its origins.

He was shaken from his deeper reverie as the younger Potter, Miss Weasley and Miss Lovegood entered the office. He could tell that Potter junior had managed a nap between this morning and now, as circles were no longer darkening the undersides of his eyes, and it made him wonder, almost, what it was like to be the subject to such unwavering loyalty, before shaking the thought from his head as Auror Potter spoke.

“I've asked Gamp to notify us if they get through to the French Ministry,” he began, and he watched as this did nothing but incense the son.

“That's not good enough! We have Luna here! We can go now, who knows what could be happening to her the longer we wait,” he snapped, and Tom was hardpressed against disagreeing with him. Though it was Scrimgeour who intervened, a no-nonsense expression to his face.

“I understand your eagerness, but you have to understand, if we act without the French Ministry's permission, we will directly be going against agreements between our two land mass governments that will negatively affect our future rapport with any of those countries,” he spoke evenly, though it was that moment that the other weasel, Ronald, entered the office after knocking, along with Shacklebolt, crowding the already generously filled office, and generally causing a newborn headache to stab at his temples.

He, however, didn't get to open his mouth as to his purpose for being there, as just then, a bright light flashed into the room, stopping in the middle of the room, and Tom instantly recognized Hermione's otter Patronus. They were all both galvanized and silent, waiting for its message.

  
“ _Harry, I need you to tell the Aurors where I am, it's close to Nice, called Saint-Andr_ é _-de-la-Roche, I've managed to acquire a wand, but...merde, it's bad, really bad, I'm not alone here, please hurry.”_

  
Hermione's accented voice floated out of the otter's mouth, her French peeking through, stronger than he's witnessed in years, her tone breathy and disturbed. A part of him was disdainful that she contacted Potter first, but then logic crushed that feeling, as he remembered her message. What did she mean by 'she wasn't alone'? Were there more assailants? Was she in immediate danger? Or were there others being held there as she was?

“I apologize, sir, but we can't wait, you heard her, I volunteer to go alone if you're more worried about the rapport with France,” Potter junior forced out, and Tom was inclined to agree with him once more, cursing inwardly, hoping it wouldn't become a habit.

“With all due respect, Head Auror Scrimgeour, but that's the reason I'm here, I've been spending extra hours in the office, waiting for the exact moment we received affirmation from the French Ministry, which just came in fifteen minutes ago through the International Liaison Office,” Ronald Weasley piped in then, and Auror Potter turned to Scrimgeour.

“Well, sir, I think that's what you were waiting for,” he quipped, to which the Head Auror nodded, turning to address everyone in the room.

“As admirable as your loyalty is, aside from Miss Lovegood, I will have to ask you to stay within the Ministry, and that includes you, Lord Slytherin,” he finished, turning to address him briefly as he thought to object, turning then to address Potter senior.

  
“Auror Potter, I want your team in office and ready to depart within thirty.”

Unknown Location – same day

  
The first thing Hermione did after being faced with an unconscious Draco Malfoy was scramble to look for his wand, and finding it in his holster on his arm, she yanked it free and immediately sat him up and cast an _incarcerous_ , binding his feet together and his arms behind his back, before tiptoeing out of the cell to make sure he had truly been alone.

As she popped her head out into the hallway, she was relieved to see that it was empty, but that relief was short-lived when she found that her cell was one of many in a long hallway. The bright light she'd seen earlier when the door had first opened was from a window that was streaming what looked like legitimate sunlight into the hallway, as she could feel the warmth of it, unlike the charm that had been in her cell.

There were more windows as she looked left and right, illuminating at least twenty other doors that presumably led to cells like her own.

She heard a grunt from behind her and turned back in to give her 'host' her attention. Anxiety and anger simultaneously curled in her belly as she watched him blink wearily, moving his shoulders as if trying to bring his hand to his head wound, only to realize he was restrained. With his eyes open, she noticed that one was cloudy, on the side of the face that was burnt, which insinuated that he was blind in that eye, and she wondered again how he'd come by those injuries. It seemed he noticed her standing there, but it was that he noticed her holding his wand that sent him into a rage.

“How dare you put your filthy hands on a pureblood's wand,” he snarled, the burn on his face crinkling unpleasantly, and she blinked incredulously.

“How dare I? How _DARE I!?”_ she asked, repeating herself, “you kidnapped me, kept me in this cell for days, and you have the audacity to ask me that!?” she snapped back, just barely restraining herself from slapping the living daylights out of him. She took a deep breath instead, regaining her tiny bit of composure.

“Why am I here? Answer me honestly,” she asked.

“Or what?” he retorted, and with a wand in her hand, even though it was not her own, she felt her magic sing around her.

“Or I will kill you,” she cut coldly, not even remotely lying, and apparently, something in her demeanour caused him to believe her because he sang like a canary.

“I-It was revenge against Riddle,” he began, before stopping, panic flashing across his face, and she wondered if he realized the position he was in. She wondered if he was worried about facing consequences from Tom when she was standing right there with his own wand pointed at him.

'Merde, I knew it,' she scoffed in her mind, irritation at Tom fanned in her like a forest fire. She settled it away for a moment, refocusing on the task at hand.

“And what did you plan to do with me? Keep me in a cell forever?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him, to which he scoffed but didn't answer. Rage, as she'd never known before, that startled her, flew threw her swift as a fox, and she levelled the wand at him.

  
“ _Crucio.”_

  
She said it with such cold certainty, she was almost certain that it hadn't even been her who spoke the enchantment, and she was momentarily taken aback by his screams of pain. She had read once that you had to mean it, but she'd never thought herself to be capable of it, apparently, she'd been wrong. She ended it a moment later, watching as he tried to regain his breath, blood dribbling down his chin, as red as her own, and she sneered in disgust that these purebloods thought themselves so superior over nothing.

“I'll ask you again, what did you plan to do with me,” she asked, and he lifted his head to spit his blood at her feet.

 _  
Kill him,'_ Tom's voice crooned in her head, and she shook it away.

  
“I was going to sell you off, there are loads of wizards willing to pay top galleon to put your mudblood arse in its place,” he clipped, and she felt a chill run up her spine at how nonchalantly he spoke about it.

“That's all you mudbloods are good for, a good lay for some, not for me though, I would never lower myself to touch filth like you,” he sneered, giving her a once over and she scoffed.

“Tch, you're no prize yourself,” she retorted, nodding towards his burns savagely, to which he scowled.

“Riddle did this to me, ruined my life and reputation at the same time!” he snapped, and she raised an eyebrow, incredulous because it seemed like he was attempting to gain sympathy from her.

“Let me guess, you're absolutely innocent and did nothing to deserve it,” she replied dryly. She knew Tom, he was cruel, that was without question, but to scar someone for life? A pureblood at that? He'd probably had his reasons, and she couldn't bring herself to feel an ounce of pity for the wizard in front of her.

“What do you know of 'Le Plafond de Verre'?” she asked, anticipation gripping her as he narrowed his good eye at her.

“How did you find out that name?” he asked, and she sent another _crucio_ his way, watching him jolt in his seated position against the cot. She ended it nonchalantly, only the tiniest bit concerned as to how it the unforgivable was coming so easily to her and waited patiently for him to regain his bearings.

“Irrelevant, answer the question.”

“I can't! I can't speak on it because of a vow!” he ranted at her, baring his blood-stained teeth, and she cursed. Of course anyone who knew about it would be vowed into silence, how hadn't she thought of that before? She tucked it away for later observance.

“Alright, where are we?”

“Saint-André-de-la-Roche,” he replied groggily.

“In Nice?” she asked for clarification, and she assumed him lolling his head was a nod. Seeing that he was losing consciousness, she frowned and hit him with a stinging hex. He jerked awake and glared at her, to which she glared back.

“Is there anyone in the other cells?” she asked cooly, and his lip lifted in a sneer, but he flinched when she aimed his wand at him.

  
“Yes.”

  
“How many and who?” she asked, feeling absolute lightning and thunder in her veins.

He didn't answer, looking as if he wanted to stay silent again, this time she granted his wish, throwing a _stupefy_ at him, which knocked him out cold, before turning and grabbing the keys that were still in the open door.

She then went to the door next to hers, going through the keys until one opened the door. She unlocked it, and aware that whoever was behind it might try to pull the same stunt she did, she kicked it open instead, and what she saw broke her heart.

There were three girls, all huddled together on the single cot, none of them could be said to be over the age of eleven, one of them even looking to be no older than five. She stepped in, and they huddled further against the wall, and she raised her hands in defence.

“Shh, shh, ça va, it's okay, I am not here to hurt you, je ne suis pas là pour te blesser,” she pitched her voice softly, repeating her sentiments in both English and French, unsure of what language they spoke. They seemed to relax mildly, but their eyes were trained on the wand in her hand. Unfortunately, only wearing a loose shift as she was, like them, she had nowhere to put it where it would be easily accessible.

“Do you speak English? Ou parle Français?” she asked, unable to tell their ethnicity from looking at them. Two of the girls were white, with pale dirty faces, one black hair and blue-eyed, and the other a blonde with green eyes, while the third girl had a light brown complexion, dark almond-shaped eyes and long black hair.

They didn't respond to her questions which made her think they spoke neither, so she decided to try Spanish, the only other language she had the tiniest bit of knowledge of, having known a few students from Spain in Beauxbatons, she'd gone through a phase in her younger years of trying to learn the language to make friends.

“Hablas Español?” she asked, hoping she hadn't butchered it but was delighted when all three nodded.

“Ah...¿De donde eres?” she asked, and it was one of the only questions she knew, besides how to ask for their name. The girl with the darker complexion answered first, she looked to be around seven or eight.

“Soy Mexicana, de Mérida,” she spoke warily, and Hermione nodded, and looked towards the other two, as the blonde answered next.

“Soy Española, de Zaragoza,” she mumbled before bringing the neckline of her shift up to hide her face, and Hermione guessed that maybe she was ten. Hermione then brought her attention to the black-haired and blue-eyed one, who seemed hesitant to answer, though she was the youngest, looking to be about five, so it was understandable.

“Soy de Venezuela,” her voice high pitched and shy, and Hermione then asked their names.

  
“Esperanza,” replied the blonde.

“Mayte,” answered the girl with almond-shaped eyes.

“Valentina,” whispered the youngest girl.

  
“Soy Her-mee-oh-nee,” she responded, bringing her hand to her chest, changing her name's pronunciation to make it easier for them, and her heart swelled as they tried to repeat it anyway. She thought to tell them to stay where they were while she checked the other cells, but didn't know how to communicate that to them, so instead, she simply left the cell but also left the door open in case they wanted to follow her, which they did.

She had doubled back to her cell to make sure Malfoy was still out, to which he was, and she sneered at his crumpled body, but her attention was diverted by Valentina taking her hand. She then decided to start on the other cells, motioning the girls to stand behind her each time she opened a new one.

Each one sent a flash of rage through her heart, as they had one or two people in each, all of them no older than sixteen. Some spoke French, some spoke Spanish, and some spoke neither, and none of them seemed to speak English, but in the end, there were thirty-five of them. Some were boys, but the majority were girls, and it sickened Hermione at what their fates had been expected to be.

She was unsure if they were magical or non-magical, but she cleaned all of their faces with the wand, also casting standard hair and garment cleaning charms on them (though this was mostly to erase the crucios from the wand's immediate memory). She then went back to her cell and levelled a tongue-tying curse on Draco so that he couldn't speak of her using unforgivables, knowing that regardless of her circumstances, the Wizengamot would villainize her for using such force.

Somewhere deep inside her wanted him dead, but with thirty-five children watching her, she refrained from humouring this new violent side of her that she hadn't known existed. She decided that she would let the Aurors deal with him, with all the children and prisoners she'd found, there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd escape Azkaban.

She looked back at them all crowded in the hallway, their faces now clean, and wary as they watched her, huddled together as they were, that it was difficult for a moment to think of a happy memory for her Patronus.

All she could feel was exhaustion, dread and hopelessness. How many children had been in these very cells before them? Malfoy had said he'd intended to sell her, so did that mean the rest had been sold? Skeeter once told her that Le Plafond de Verre had something to do with an underground auction, is that what this was? Were these children the goods? It disgusted her, and she exited the cell to kneel in front of them.

Valentina grabbed her hand again, while Esperanza patted her cheek, and she couldn't help but let out a small huff of laughter. Who knows how long they've been here, but here were these...babies, trying to make her feel better.

If she hadn't decided before, then she certainly had now, she was going to put a stop to this. Briefly, she considered Leo's plea to leave the UK, that he'd sprung on her during the spring hols, and she'd still been considering it, but she wanted to see this through, she looked at Valentina, no, she needed to see this through.

With that, she thought of home, of Fort-de-France and her small square courtyard, her mother toiling over her small garden box happily, the sun colouring her pale arms red, indicating that she had a sunburn. It was a memory she cherished, now more than ever that she was alone. Her papa she could see through the window, puttering around the kitchen, and her mamie listening to her stories loudly on the new radio they'd just gotten, from the living room. Her maman raised her head and a smile spread across her face as she saw her.

_  
'There you are, mon coeur!”  
  
  
_

“Expecto Patronum!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOrry, I meant to upload this yesterday, but depression is doing me dirty rn (but also, working and trying to get everything ready for school that starts next week, n im all tuckered out)
> 
> Been looking for the opportunity to write a Harry POV, I love that snarky lil shit. Also, shits gonna hit the fan. Prepare thyself.
> 
> Anyway, hope you all enjoyed the chapter!


	12. Chapter 11 - Unchecked Rage

**Upsetting themes of manipulation and gaslighting ahead.**

  
Chapter 11 – St. Mungos – June 19th, 1947

Hermione sat in the nearest armchair that she saw once she entered the room, she was still in a bit of shock and certainly fatigued in general. She'd just concluded her wellness check with the healers, where it had been established that physically, she was healthy, if in need of an extra stone, however, mentally, she'd need to rest for a bit, to let herself heal from the stress (which she honestly believed, as she was still quite jarred from the experience).

She'd been cleared to leave, but instead of doing so, she had headed towards the children's ward, where the majority of the children found were receiving medical care. The hospital was generally empty, as she'd been told that due to the delicate nature of the children's cases, visiting hours had been promptly put on hold until further notice.

To be truthful, she didn't want to leave just yet, not until she figured some things out first, and there was definitely much to think about. She looked around the room, it was still rather early, around seven in the morning, and the majority of the girls were still sleeping. There were six in this room, the children having been separated by age and language spoken, and she was sitting beside Mayte's bed, one of the original three girls she'd found.

After she'd sent that Patronus the day before, it was within the hour that the Aurors had shown, curiously with Luna Lovegood in tow, who had helped her calm the children around her. Afterwards, though it was all pretty much a blur, she remembered seeing Harry's father, James Potter, leading the Aurors, and she remembered guiding him to where she'd left Draco Malfoy, who had still be stunned in what had been her cell, other than that if she tried to recall specific details, they seemed just out of reach.

She thought of the direction of her life had taken since coming to the UK, and though she'd made a life here, though she had friends, a career, and Tom, she felt that every negative thing that kept happening, was chipping at an already crumbling wall and that the past week was the final _bombarda_ to its foundations. She was not alright, that much was clear, something needed to change, and she had an inkling of a good place to start, which was to leave Slytherin Castle.

While her feelings for Tom were rather skewed, as she did care for him (against her better judgement), she did want him (to the point that she finds she's possessive of him, almost as much as he was of her), and she did rely on him (he had become her home and support since her mother's murder), she simply couldn't ignore the things that had happened to her. She couldn't dismiss what would have happened to her, and furthermore, looking around the room at the sleeping children, she couldn't dismiss what could have happened to them, or what had happened to previous children.

Her reliance on him had driven her, unaware, to have become comfortable with who he was, as well as how he was, and she simply couldn't afford to do that anymore, not without sacrificing a part of herself that she wasn't positive was worth the price.

If Tom wanted to continue supporting these disgusting families then he could do so without her by his side, and though she was sure he was expecting her back at the castle tonight, she had no intention of stepping foot back in Alcazar Deslizan.

She looked back to the Mayte-shaped lump of blankets and began to plan. She needed to find out what was going to happen to these kids, it had been established that they were all magical, and likely muggleborns, which would make it harder to locate their families, but until then, they needed to go somewhere, she wondered who would be relegated to such a task and if she would be able to speak to them.

She also needed to find out where Jas was with their little investigation, and furthermore, she needed to find out what Malfoy's charges were, so she could testify against him. She also thought of her decision yesterday, Leo had surprised her back during the Spring hols, she hadn't realized how much he hadn't settled within the magical world, but also, that he was worried about her.

Her decision to stay in the UK came easily to her, she felt that she needed to see this through, and once she did, she would leave and take Leo with her. It reminded her, however, that now that she wasn't going back to the castle, she would need to find new accommodations, as she wanted Leo to stay with her when school let out in five days, and the flat was too small for three people.

She briefly considered going back to Riddle Manor, but scraped it immediately, not believing she had it in her to live there again. As well, thinking of the manor gave her an idea, and she pondered on it more, looking around the room once again, the kids were starting to rouse, what if she offered up Riddle Manor to be made into a home for them? It had merit, as it was certainly big enough, though it would need to be altered to suit its new purpose, the only downside would be to convince Tom.

'He's going to want something,' she thought, frustrated.

Even if she left Slytherin Castle, his price could simply be that she comes back, and a tiny part of her was almost convinced that it wasn't such a bad idea, because it would be worth it, no?

  
“Her-mee-o-nee?”

  
Hermione was broken from her thoughts by a soft childlike voice, she quickly found the source to be Mayte, who was now awake and looking up at her from her place in bed. She smiled gently and waved at her, wishing her good morning (probably butchered) in Spanish. The little girl mumbled it in return, before hiding under her blanket, and bemused, Hermione took it as her queue to leave.

It was as she turned left to exit the hallway that led to the children's ward that she froze, acknowledging that not ten minutes earlier, she had been strong in her conviction to leave Slytherin Castle, and potentially end her relationship with Tom, only to turn around a reconsider it on the possibility of using herself as leverage in a response to a dilemma.

She cursed and ran a hand down her face in exhaustion, flinching when the (suddenly) cold metal of Tom's ring shocked her lip. Bringing her hand away from her face, she scrutinized the odd black stone, remembering once again, her behaviour from yesterday.

Hermione had begun to suspect that Tom's ring wasn't just a mundane piece of jewellery within days of him asking her to wear it, if the rather intimate dreams and hearing his voice in her thoughts were anything to go by, she just couldn't find what he'd done to it, to make it like this, regardless of how much she read on the matter.

There was simply no way that an inanimate object could imitate a person so thoroughly, no matter how stringent and ambitiously one charmed it (she'd checked), but also, more worryingly, it didn't just imitate Tom, no, it seemed to be able to influence her thoughts and actions if she didn't pay close enough attention to it. If she hadn't been completely convinced that there was something wrong with the ring before her kidnapping, yesterday, or more specifically, her liberal use of an unforgivable, had certainly convinced her, and now it was apparently attacking her convictions.

She glared at it and continued her way to the floo entrances, this was just another thing she had to think about and to be honest, she was getting quite tired of it all.

As she neared the floo, she was reminded that she still didn't have a wand, as all of her belongings that had been taken from her had yet to be retrieved, and Malfoy's wand had been taken for evidence. She groaned in annoyance, her Gringotts key was back at the castle, and she resisted the urge to stamp her foot in an exaggerated tantrum, instead, forcing herself to take a deep breath and consider her options.

She looked to her side, seeing an elf in an apprentice healer's robe, an idea struck her. A few elves had become bolder and free-thinking since her bill had passed, mostly due to many pureblooded families freeing them in direct protest of having to pay them. Many had since turned to institutions such as St. Mungos and Hogwarts for work, but most importantly, they were no longer really forbidden from doing anything, and that would (hopefully) help her now.

“Niti?” she called out, wringing her hands together. Relief flooded her when the little elf appeared, and she looked up at her with big tearful eyes, reaching for Hermione's hand.

“I's was so worried, Miss, I's should have been following, as Lord ordered, but yous said yous was not happy with that so I's didn't. I's happy you is safe,” she ranted, and Hermione knelt down to hold her elf's hands.

“It's alright, Niti, it's not your fault, and I don't blame you,” she replied, running a mental tirade against Tom for not telling the poor elf that she'd been found. Eventually, Niti began to calm down and Hermione took a deep breath, about to ask for her favour, but before she could open her mouth, she caught the elf's apologetic look. Perhaps she should have questioned why she'd been actually crying, but all thought left her when she felt the unpleasant pull of side-along apparition.

“Niti?”

“I's sorry, Miss, the lord orders this.”

It was too late for her to pull her hands back, not that she could, as Niti's grip had been snake-like. She closed her eyes at the nauseating pull at her navel, and when she opened them, she was back in her room in Alcazar Deslizan and Niti was gone.

She felt a stir of panic in her gut and got up from her kneeling position, rushing towards the door that connected her room to Tom's. As she neared it, she felt resistance in the air, like it was solidifying around her, and she cursed, it was warded, she was warded against leaving. It was then that panic gripped her spine, and regardless of it futility, she turned to the other door that usually led out into the hallway, only to find it gone entirely. Suddenly, she found it hard to breathe, black spots dotting her vision, it was as if she was stuck in that cell again, stuck in the manor again while Kai had died.

  
Only this time, she knew her jailer.

_-Two Days Later-_

  
Blearily, Hermione opened her eyes to the bright light of the sun, wincing as she felt her hair scratch against her face, stiff from not being properly washed or maintained in over a week. Sitting up, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and gazed around the room, disappointed when it seemed her destruction had been righted...again.

Since she'd realized that she was stuck in here, after the panic had subsided, she'd been filled with nothing but an all-encompassing rage, much so that for the second day in a row, after destroying her room to the best of her ability, she woke to find everything back in its place. She looked towards the window, hearing the birds chirp, and decided she should probably take a bath, as well as finally wash her hair. Moving off the bed, a flash of red caught her eye, and she looked towards it to find a large bloodstain in the sheets where her hips had been.

'Well, that explains the unchecked rage,' she scoffed in her head, shrugging as she pulled her (doubtlessly) bloodied nightgown over her head, and slid her stained undergarments down her legs, half tempted to leave them in a pile on the floor, still angry with Niti.

She made it as far as the washroom before stomping back to grab them and march her way over to the hamper, slamming them into the basket in irritation.

This was not to say her anger was merely an over-exaggeration caused by her monthly cycle, no, she had every right to be, absolutely, foaming at the mouth, furious. And Tom knew it. He knew how she felt about restrictive wards, it felt like 1945 all over again, and she had no doubt, it was probably the reason he stayed scarce because if he showed his neck here now, she was liable to strangle him.

She walked into the washroom and climbed up onto the elevated stone that supported the bath, and turned the knobs to start filling the tub, pouring oils and soaps in before turning towards the vanity. She swiped her Sleekeazy's conditioning solution and began lathering generous amounts into sections of her hair until her whole head was done and twisted into a bun. Her arms were burning from the job, and she hoisted herself over the edge of the tub and eased herself into the water, hissing slightly at the heat, and wrinkling her nose when she immediately noticed blood swirl in the water once she got in.

She laid her head back against the stone edge and closed her eyes, her mind making plans for when Tom let her out of here.

  
After all, he had to eventually, right? And, oh, when he did, she was going to make him regret doing this to her.

_-Two Weeks Later-_

Hermione sat on top of her desk, head rested against the window. It had been weeks and Tom had still not shown himself, and she didn't want to admit it, but two weeks without hearing, seeing or speaking to another person was starting to get to her. Within the first week, she'd destroyed her room a few more times, ripped her robes apart only for all of them to repair themselves by the next day, and now it was a struggle to get out of bed.

Was this punishment? For berating him to stop sending Niti to follow her every move? For not being able to prevent her own kidnapping? For not being strong enough? What was he playing at?

Or was this all a dream and she was still stuck in that cell? Her breathing escalated at the thought, had she hallucinated escaping? No, that wasn't possible, she remembered reading somewhere that one could not dream of faces they'd never seen before, and she'd never seen any of those children before in her life. Then again, where _had_ she read that? Was that actually a thing or did she just make it up? Unless they had really been in those cells and she'd seen them but had been caught and obliviated? Did subconscious memory factor into dreams? She suddenly cursed her younger self's snobbish dismissal of Divination, because now she knew shite all about dreams and how they worked.

Perhaps she _had_ escaped but had been caught again, or maybe she was cursed to live a nightmare again, but this time it wasn't previously lived memories that were the nightmare, but a cage of her own making? Certainly, there had been times where this room had felt like a prison, though not nearly as much as it did now. Perhaps that was the nightmare, being forced to stay in one place idly, not reading, learning or working, just existing. Though food appeared periodically throughout the day, so then again, maybe it wasn't a dream, because if it were, she wouldn't need to eat, right?

  
Her head pounded from the continuous questions going off in her head. She just wanted answers.

_-One Month Later-_

She soaked in the tub, head resting in her arms that were folded over the edge of the bath. Leo should have been home about a month now, she felt bad that she hadn't been there to greet him from the King's Cross from his first year of school, she hoped Tom had done it.

She had tried weeks ago to practice wandless magic, but she'd had no luck. She remembered reading that one needed a balanced mind and intimate knowledge of their magic to succeed and that even powerful wizards such as Grindelwald and Dumbledore hadn't even been able to achieve it. She knew she was capable, intelligent, and even powerful in her own right, she just simply was not at that level just yet. She scoffed, she doubted that even Tom was at that level, and that thought made her feel a tiny bit better about her insecurities.

If she'd had a wand, though, she would have been out of here in minutes, and Tom would only be so lucky to ever see her backside again. Though she had to admit, a tiny part of her missed him now, missed his arms around her, missed trying to count his lashes in the early morning as his head lay on her chest, stamping down her envy in the fact that they were longer than hers. She missed the company of anybody, really, her friends, Leo, Madam Potter and the other firm associates, but mostly Tom's, and that stupid smirk of his when he argued with her.

She dozed off, her breaths softening into an even rhythm, the water still warm, her hair piled on her head, covered in conditioning solution, and the air of the washroom was humid and heavy with the scent of perfumes and oils.

She woke lightly, blearily registering hands running through her wet hair, rinsing it and massaging her scalp. She was pulled against a hard chest, and she struggled to turn and face him, but he hushed her, pressing on pressure points at the back of her neck that had her sighing and causing her eyes to droop sleepily again.

“You should know better not to fall asleep in the bath,” he crooned, chest rumbling against her back as he gently detangled her curls with his fingers.

  
She didn't stay awake much longer after that, and when she did, she found herself tucked into bed, her hair expertly done in twists, pinned to her head beneath her satin scarf, and he was nowhere to be found.

_-Two Months Later-_

Hermione didn't even truly know how long she'd been stuck there anymore, the thought of leaving left her with both a yearning and acute anxiety that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. Her monthly had passed once more, so she figured it must be around two months, surely Leo would be getting ready to go back for sixth year? She wondered idly what had happened to Malfoy, had he been sentenced? What had happened to the children? Had it all been a figment of her imagination? She found that if she tried to bring up the effort to care about these things, she had a lot of trouble with it, she mostly felt devoid of anything nowadays.

She curled deeper under the blankets and buried her face further into the pillow, even her dreams (were they dreams?) were quiet, perhaps she had hallucinated Tom's ring being alive too. All she wanted to do was sleep, perhaps if she was lucky, she'd wake up somewhere else, or maybe not at all.

She felt a weight on her head, something curiously similar to a thumb gently caressing her forehead. She shifted her face upwards to look up at the owner and was surprised that it was sunset, instead of the dead of night it had been moments ago, and more so, she was surprised to find Tom sitting there as if no time had passed, expression almost gentle, as he watched her.

“Where did you go?” she asked, wincing at the gravelly tone, an outcome of not using her voice in a while.

“Nowhere, I've been here the whole time, and you, my dear, have been asleep,” he replied, voice soft as she leaned her head into his touch more, “I had a healer look at you, she believed it was stress-induced, your magic protecting you, ten days have passed,” he explained.

“Oh.” her voice cracked. Had it really only been ten days? It had felt so much longer than that.

“Am I awake now?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed, and moved to pull his hand away, but stopped at her whimper, “what is it?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Don't go, please.”

  
“Darling, I wouldn't dream of it,” he affirmed, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead.

Ministry of Magic – June 29th, 1947

Tom sat in his seat within the trial chamber of the Wizengamot. It had been ten days since Hermione had been brought home, and Lucius, Narcissa, Abraxas and Draco had all been apprehended by the Aurors, having found thirty-five children in the dungeon of their French home in Nice.

Lucius had already been tried by the French Ministry, after being force-fed veritaserum to spill all of his involvements, he had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, while Narcissa had received ten years for compliance to the crime. Today, however, Draco was being tried by the British Ministry, as Hermione was considered a British resident now, primarily before her citizenship of Martinique, and because the crime of kidnapping had happened in Britain.

Unfortunately for all of them, Draco Malfoy would never be safely ensconced within the walls of Azkaban. No, what Tom had in mind for him was undeniably worse, and he would be using his vote to keep him out of the prison so that he could deal with the little weasel himself. He'd also visited Draco (and Abraxas, while he'd also been in Ministry holding) paying a hefty amount of galleons for the guards to turn their heads and had utilized legilimency to suppress the wizard's knowledge of the other children, and of the Malfoy trafficking business, just enough to evade from the veritaserum.

He'd, of course, had done the same for Abraxas, but only after squeezing a vow of utmost loyalty out of him in the process. With Lucius now out of the way, Abraxas in his pocket, and Draco soon to be very dead, there was nothing stopping Tom from swooping in and taking hold of the power vacuum the Malfoy dynasty left. The only person, in fact, that could change Draco's sentence would have been Hermione, which was why Tom had her...indisposed, as she was.

When he'd first witnessed her Patronus that day in Auror Potter's office, he'd begun planning posthaste, and he'd began implementing his plan when he'd been notified of Hermione's retrieval and delivery to St. Mungos, along with thirty-five other children.

Years ago when he'd first acquired Alcazar Deslizan, he'd put up rather simple wards, that fed off the ley line the castle was situated upon, with the full intention of not upsetting Hermione, but right then, he'd known instantly, that the only thing that would prevent her from leaving him then was if she physically couldn't, especially if she thought he'd had anything to do with the Malfoy trafficking scheme.

So, he'd done to the castle what he'd always intended to, and that was to turn it into a Wizarding home. He'd placed the ward stones on the cardinal points of the property and had spent the rest of that evening and night pouring his blood and magic upon them, mixing it with the natural magic of the land, to bring the castle to life, to give it sentience, and carry out his will. In this case, it was both to change Hermione's mind about leaving him and to keep her well away from the Malfoy trials, but in a way that her pesky friends would not worry.

Firstly, to get her back to the castle, he'd used his connection to Niti, her house-elf, who still siphoned her magic from her connection to him (regardless that she was Hermione's elf), in the case that she was particularly averse to come back to the castle herself. From what he'd managed to gather, she'd been wandless in St. Mungos, the wand she found likely being taken for evidence upon her delivery to the hospital. It wasn't difficult to assume that the first thing she would do is want to replace her wand, and to do that, she would have needed her Gringotts key to purchase a new one, wherein she would then ask Niti to help her.

He watched idly as Draco Malfoy was escorted into the chamber, his chains dragging as he was directed to the large iron seat in the centre of the court. Tom felt the tiniest flush of satisfaction at how hideous the scar that covered half his face was, as it bunched while he scowled at being touched, silver-blonde hair drooping. Dumbledore cracked the gavel against the podium, as Malfoy's lawyer prepared his paperwork on the offered table to the side, while two ministry appointed healers administered the veritaserum.

“What is your name?” asked Dumbledore, beginning the proceedings.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he droned in return, while Dumbledore nodded and continued on.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are charged on the primary offence of Kidnapping and Unlawful Confinement of one Jeanne Hermione Granger-Riddle, as well as involvement in Trafficking of Magical Minors, how do you plead?”

“Chief Warlock,” Malfoy's lawyer interrupted, “as the primary victim is not present, you have no ground to stand on in this trial, my client requests a reschedule-” but was cut off, as Tom raised his wand.

“Denied, I am the acting presence for the victim, as her closest relative, due to the damages upon her mind,” he drolled out.

“Thank you, Lord Slytherin, the trial will continue,” Dumbledore nodded.

Tom nodded and watched as Lord James Potter raised his wand, requesting to speak as a witness, which was granted and he zoned out again. Hermione was likely nearing the end of her second month in her room right about now, as he had charmed the room for time to move faster within it, where six of her days passed as one of his.

The idea had come to him, remarkably, from Wools. Too many times he'd witnessed children forced into prayer and solitary confinement for minor misbehaviour, the type that didn't necessitate a beating, at least. Children always came out of confinement craving attention, or any positive interaction, and though Hermione wasn't a child, he was certain it would work to his liking.

He remembered when he'd checked on her five days ago to find her asleep in the bath, he'd decided to use the opportunity to reinforce the perception of his company as something perceived as positive, so he climbed in, relishing as he moulded her against him, and finished the tedious care for her hair, before tucking her into bed.

“Chief Warlock, as you've deduced, although my client has admitted his guilt in the kidnapping of his victim, he has no knowledge of the trafficking or of the other children, and by his own admittance under veritaserum, hadn't lifted a wand to Miss Granger-Riddle, and with that information, my client requests that his sentence be lowered to avoid Azkaban,” declared the lawyer, which Dumbledore brought to a vote.

Tom had raised his wand in favour of house arrest, not missing the looks of suspicion aimed at him from many around his vicinity, including Dumbledore, and Tom made a note to be careful of his actions in the coming months. Dumbledore counted the votes and sighed, cracking the gavel against the podium.

“With a thirty-one vote in favour of house arrest, and twenty-nine in favour of Azkaban, Draco Lucius Malfoy, I sentence you to six years house arrest, where your magic is to be locked. Court dismissed,” Dumbledore announced in a weary voice.

As Draco was led out of the trial chamber, Tom made eye contact with Ramsey Lestrange, who was looking at him as a wizard who'd made a grave error, and he couldn't agree more. The Malfoys were all but neutered by their own hand, and if had anything to say about it, the Lestranges would be next.

  
Tom held the older wizard's gaze for a beat longer before making to get up with the rest of the Wizengamot, after all, he had a witch waiting for him at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all sorry for the wait, been super stressed and depressed, but here's the new chapter. I started school today and though everything is online, I'll probably be lowering my update schedule to once a week now (cause I have to work still too, ya girls gotta make rent uhuh) and because it helps if I take my time to write more coherently, especially since I don't have as much free time to shoot them out like a normally do (it was nice while it lasted, felt pretty accomplished there for a sec)
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, Tom just couldn't give it a break, huh? Don't worry, she won't stay down for long.


	13. Chapter 12 - Dealing in Double-Edged Blades

Chapter 12 – Chateau Lestrange – June 29th, 1947

Leta crossed her ankles daintily as she sipped on her tea, calmly watching as her uncle raged. Broken glass and ripped parchment littered the floor of his stately office, his silver hair was dishevelled and his amber eyes alight with panic. Five days ago, Lucius Malfoy was sentenced to life in Azkaban after their trafficking business had been discovered, brought down, ironically enough, by his own son.

Draco Malfoy, who earlier today was sentenced to six years of house arrest for the kidnapping of Hermione Granger-Riddle, had destroyed his family’s power and reputation in only one swift move. She sneaked a sly glance at Rodolphus beside her, noting his minuscule look of wariness at his grandfather’s behaviour, and she could not help but feel a smug satisfaction at it. On the opposite side of the coin, though she was sympathetic to what Granger-Riddle must have gone through during her kidnapping, a part of her was relieved, because if her uncle’s reaction was anything to go by, she should likely be safe from future plots.

She thought briefly to her deal with Slytherin, it had been around a month and a half since he’d complied on their negotiation, and she’d told him everything he needed to know concerning Granger-Riddle, which, she’d had no doubt, was what prompted him to throw his political weight behind Albus Dumbledore as Chief Warlock.

She managed to restrain a sneer at the thought of her old professor, he was the reason she was stuck here, but though she hated him for letting her take the fall for actions she had never actually had any control over, she didn’t hate him as much as she hated her uncle. If anyone had to win Chief Warlock between the two, she still vastly preferred Dumbledore, because her uncle winning meant more barriers in her way to the destruction of this family.

She was close too, the book Slytherin had sent her was written in Old French, and she’d finally finished translating it, having had to use more creative methods to hide her activities and the text from her uncle, she’d gone so far as to cut a hole at the top of her mattress to stash it, but it had been worth it because it had been certainly informational.

A lot like wandless magic, to connect, or in her case, reconnect, with her magic and undo the restraints on it, she needed to balance her mind, make peace with her life, her goals and dreams, through meditation. Centring herself, and only once that was done could she begin to search for where the charmed ropes began and ended and unravel it to release her magic from its confines.

Leta heard one last shatter, as a vase on the mantle of the hearth exploded and then silence, she looked towards her uncle as he straightened his posture, combing his hair back with a shaking hand as he took a breath to finally regain his composure.

“Grandfather?” cautioned Rodolphus, and it reminded her that his father, Rabastan Snr, wasn’t with them, and she mentally snorted, he was probably attempting to work damage control as they spoke.

“I have underestimated Slytherin,” her uncle replied plainly, and that perked her attention, as well as earned a confused look from Rodolphus, though she didn’t dare show her own curiosity. Did he suspect her betrayal? She decided to oblige him as he waited for either of them to question this statement.

“And what made you come to that conclusion, uncle? The Malfoy’s downfall is a product of their own making, what has he to do with it?” she asked, and she could see Rodolphus nod out of her periphery in agreement with her query. Ramsey took his seat at the desk, so he was facing them, taking a moment to adjust the sleeves and collar of his robes before addressing them.

“Draco Malfoy brought that mudblood chit to a literal dungeon filled with other mudbloods, there is absolutely no likelihood that he did not know about them, or their purpose for being there, which tells me that Slytherin manipulated the trial somehow to suit his favour,” he explained, steeping his fingers together.

“How? To enter the Ministry holding cells, one is required to relinquish their wand before entering-…are you suggesting he’s a legilimens?” Rodolphus asked, something close to awe filling his voice with that last question, and Leta had to restrain a snort, if Slytherin were a legilimens, he would have been able to take one look at Rodolphus to know exactly his most pervasive thought, that is, unless Rodolphus either held his shields strong at all times, or Slytherin had enough control to avoid reading the thoughts of others.

She thought back to Queenie Goldstein, the sister of Newt’s wife, Tina, she had been a legilimens with absolutely no control, unable to prevent herself from listening in on other’s projected thoughts. Leta knew, however, without a shadow of a doubt, that that had been the reason Grindelwald had manipulated the witch to his side. He had promised her that in his world, she would be able to marry her no-maj beau and that they would be celebrated as the bridge between the magical and non-magical, once the statute was obliterated, that all she had to do, was put her gifts to good use.

That had been a lie, as his goal had been to break the statute for wizards to take their ‘rightful’ place above non-magical people, with full intents to eradicate them should they fight back, which they were always expected to do, with muggleborns being relegated a position of servitude, but Queenie had been gullible enough to believe it. Leta didn’t necessarily blame her, though, when one heard the thoughts of others all day for the majority of one's life, with no knowledge on how to block them, it was unlikely that she’d ever have had an original thought that hadn’t be influenced by another, so it was hard to tell where Queenie, as a person, had begun, and where the manipulation began.

Which brought her back to her main point, if Slytherin was a legilimens, then he had to be one with unfathomable control, which was impressive considering his young age, especially so, if he utilized his gifts to suppress memory without a wand, as her uncle insinuated, and truly if that were the case, there was no telling how powerful this young wizard would grow to be in his prime.

What she did know was that he was the horse she was betting on to take out this family of hers, especially considering that she had informed him of Rpdolphus’s plan for his muggleborn. She sipped her tea thoughtfully, she would need to be careful, lest the young Lord Slytherin think he could control her like he clearly did the young Malfoy scions, it was worth the caution when dealing with double-edged blades like he seemed to be.

“If he is, then we will need to remain innocuous. Rodolphus, you will pick another witch for your heir, Slytherin’s mudblood had far too many eyes on her now due to the Malfoy boy.” he took a breath, “we have made the mistake of underestimating Slytherin, but that ends now, it is clear he is playing to win, so we must as well,” Ramsey finished, and she tried to gauge Rodolphus’s expression from her periphery, but he conveyed nothing but a nod.

Leta frowned, she would need to watch him, his passive agreement to drop that ridiculous plan of his was not sitting right with her, and she’d rather not notify Slytherin (in a gesture of good faith) that his muggleborn was safe, if she was not.

She nodded in silent acquiescence to her uncle before finishing her tea and requesting to take her leave, to which he waved his hand dismissively at her, allowing her to make her retreat for the evening. Casually making her way to her room, she made a list of all her concerns and plays, there was much to do still, but primarily her consideration should be on weaponizing herself. She would meditate again tonight, and eventually, when she had her magic back, then she could truly begin planning, and furthermore, reaping the vengeance that she and so many others deserved from her family.

Pheonix Park, Dublin – Garda Síochána – July 3rd, 1947

Jaismine disillusioned herself as she entered the building behind a muggle man and then proceeded to sneak behind the counter of the Irish Guard secretary in Dublin, waiting a beat to make sure no one had actually noticed her before silencing her feet and making her way down the hallway to where she was certain the records were kept.

She was continuing the investigation on the muggleborns that surrounded Nobby Leach, after much debate with Hermione, who she’d seen yesterday. She thought of her friend, and couldn’t dismiss that something was very, very wrong, but she couldn’t get to the centre of what it was. When Hermione had left St. Mungos, alerting absolutely no one, Riddle had contacted them all to explain that she was resting, her ordeal had affected her more strongly than any of them could have estimated, but something about his explanation didn’t sit right with her.

Hermione had sent that Patronus to Harry, they had all been there to witness it, so how is it that she hadn’t even contacted him before returning home to rest? Not to mention, that though Hermione held herself as she normally did, with poised confidence and her usual voracity in search of answers, she deflected and changed the topic whenever Jas asked about her well-being, enough to make her think that she was hiding something and that Riddle was involved.

Her friend had been non-negotiable in continuing their investigation because according to her, she hadn’t been able to get any information out of Draco Malfoy in regards to ‘The Glass Ceiling’.

So, here she was now, following up on what was hopefully, not another dead end. Four of the other muggleborns had clear and concise death dates and causes, Mason Harper, the assumed co-leader of the Earth Bloods, had died in an altercation that had come to exchanged curses in Diagon Alley, the same year Nobby Leach disappeared, the perpetrator had been arrested and had died in Azkaban. Ella Jackson, a few years younger than Leach and Harper, had died due to complications with Tuberculosis, a muggle disease that had spread rapidly through the Wizarding community in the 1870s which had taken many lives.

William Carter had disappeared in the summer of 1869, his corpse had been found two weeks later in the Thames, his case pronounced cold a year later, and Grayson Jules had returned to the muggle world in 1870, eventually dying of a heart attack in 1901, he left no children or family behind.

Her current hope was Aubrey Niels, who had no recorded death date, but also no record of address, work or family, within in the Ministry, at least. All that had been listed had been her birthdate (September 10th, 1849, the youngest of the Earth Bloods), and birthplace (Dublin, Ireland), so as a muggleborn, she was tracing Niels’s muggle information to hopefully find out what had happened to her.

Jas eventually found a beige door with ‘Records’ printed upon the glass, now, she wasn’t necessarily certain she was even in the right place, as all she knew of the Muggle census statistics is what she’d learned in Muggle Studies, and that was that they’d been originally started in 1841 by the Royal Irish Constabulary. She had learned recently, however, that that had been disbanded in 1922, which had then been replaced with the Garda Síochána, which was her next best bet in finding anything on Niels, and if not her, maybe someone from her muggle family that she could follow up on.

She cast a silent _hominum revelio_ upon the room to ensure it was empty, before looking briefly to her right and left, and carefully opening the door to enter, closing it gently behind her. She took in the room and the stacked shelves of boxes and sighed, cracking her knuckles, she palmed her wand and whispered:

“ _Accio_ Niels.”

She waited as she heard shuffling, flinging a silent _wingardium leviosa_ at a box that was knocked off the shelf, preventing it from smashing onto the floor, as another behind it floated itself down and towards her. She left the other box on the floor, gently, before guiding the one she wanted over to the table near the wall, and glanced over her shoulder towards the door, attempting to hear anything out in the hallway. Not hearing anything, she made her way over to the table and opened the lid of the box, which had been labelled “NI-NO 1850-1900”.

Jas flicked through the files quickly, there were many different Niels (apparently it was a common surname), and she was about to grab all of them when she came across “Niels, Aubrey” specifically. She paused, her heart thudding in her chest, she pulled it free and flipped it open, scanning the neat writing.

Her stomach dropped as she continued to read, it was a police report, a young woman found with no memory of half of her life, wandering around the middle of downtown Dublin, her only knowledge being her name, and that her family was somewhere in the city. Her eyes flicked to the top of the page to see that it was dated August 29, 1869, she would have been nineteen, just shy of twenty, and with no memory of half of her life, it was clear that the goal had been to obliviate her knowledge of Hogwarts, and magic.

If Aubrey Niels was still alive, she would be ninety-eight years old now, so Jas frantically flipped pages to find any hint as to where she had gone or what had happened to her, but there was no update, just that she had been returned into the care of her family, who had been found. She quickly used the _gemino_ charm to duplicate the page that had the family address on it, folding it and stuffing it into the pocket of her robes, before returning the file back to where she found it and both boxes back to their shelves.

She made her way back to the entrance of the records room and double-checking that the hallway was clear, she carefully left and made her way out of the building, still disillusioned.

Once she was well away from the building, she dipped into an alleyway and pulled the folded page from her pocket, and reading the address carefully, she whispered the street name along with a ‘point me’.

It was a bit of a walk, but she finally found herself in front of a narrow brickwork townhouse, that was rather aged, though it looked to have been decently kept through the years, and making sure no one was looking she transfigured her robes into a modest muggle dress and undid her disillusionment.

Jas took a deep breath and stepped up to the door, grasping the knocker firmly and giving the surface a few wraps, before stepping back politely to await an answer. She listened as she heard thuds behind the door, indicating someone was descending stairs, and was correct when the door was then yanked open by a boy no older than fifteen, who stared at her incredulously.

“Er…can I help you, miss?” he asked nervously, eyeing her suspiciously and she almost cursed, forgetting that muggles had biases based on skin colour. She decided to make the best of the situation anyway, as she couldn’t take it back now, and she was hankering for the day to be over and for a strong cuppa.

“I apologize for disturbing you, my name is Jane Bolt, I was wondering if there was an Aubrey Niels who lived here, mister…?” she trailed off on her question as he began to look at her like she’d grown another head.

“Jack Niels, I’m sorry to say, but Auntie Aubrey hasn’t lived here in years, she emigrated to Canada 40 years ago, how do you even know about her?” he asked, now leaning against the frame of the door, and Jas Scrambled a lie together to make even the most conservative Slytherin proud.

“I have a personal interest in cold cases and came across your aunt’s and I was wondering if I could speak to her about hers, would you mind sharing her address so I could possibly write her?” she asked, pausing, “I’m sorry, I assumed she is still alive, if not, I apologize for my blunder,” she added quickly, putting a hand over her heart in a show of remorse, only for the Jack Niels to snort in amusement.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, she’s alive, we have a running joke in the family that the world could literally end and Aunt Aubrey would still survive, you’re in luck, me mam keeps in touch with her, I’ll be right back,” he replied, before turning around and closing the door behind him to retreat into the house, a few minutes later, he came back with a piece of paper with a scribbled address on it.

“Here ya go, good luck with your cold case interest, though Aunt Aubrey isn’t necessarily all there, so not sure how far you’ll get.” he handed her the note and gave her a salute as she thanked him. They said their goodbyes and she departed as he closed the door, making her way to the end of the street, she dipped into the nearest alleyway and apparated.

Once she was standing in the middle of her sitting room, she thought about what he’d said, she was unsurprised that Aubrey Niels would still be alive because though she was a muggleborn, she was still a witch, so she would still benefit from the extended lifespan her magic provided her, in the exception that she doesn’t catch any illnesses and that she doesn’t battle in any duels. What worried her was the comment on her mental faculties, as she had been heavily obliviated, and Jas was unsure how that might have affected her in the long run, this would certainly take some more research.

She was about to head to the kitchen to make that tea she’d been craving, having undone the transfiguration on her robes, when a tapping at the window drew her attention. Jas walked to the window and deftly opened it, allowing a large owl she did not recognize to swoop in and make itself comfortable on her dining room table. She approached it cautiously, eyeing the letter attached to a ribbon that hung loosely around its neck, indicating that it had flown a long distance.

She left to grab a bowl of treats and water, setting it down in front of her feathery guest, before gently taking the letter in hand. She carefully scanned it for anything malicious, but found nothing, and read the sender’s name, but not recognizing it, she flipped it to see the back to see if there was a return address, or even a recipient, but it was all blank.

She frowned, turning it over again, to read the sender’s name again.

Who was _M. Innocenti_?

Alcazar Deslizan – August 26th, 1947

Tom sat down at his desk, exhausted, and leaned his head back against the headrest of his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. He gave a long sigh before bringing his attention to the stack of unopened letters, many of which were from former Malfoy clients.

He rolled up the sleeves of his button-up as he was still in muggle clothing after having met with a Riddle Arms client this morning. Since the war, the weapons business had become the unofficial, underground supplier of small range firearms to the UK’s many gangs, and today had been a meeting with a notorious anti-fascist group labelled the ‘43 Group’. The group consisted mainly of Jewish ex-servicemen from the war, who had taken it upon themselves to fight the many British fascist organizations that had sprung up since the war’s end.

He didn’t actually care that the business had taken a less than savoury route, as to him, money was money, and it would fund all of his plans, not to mention that as a business, he wasn’t necessarily prohibited from selling to any specific person, so he never bothered in making any sort of distinction.

On top of the muggle business, he had successfully filled the void that the Malfoy fall had left, as Abraxas had gotten four years of house arrest after his trial in July. Though, of the Malfoy ventures, he hadn’t touched any of the trafficking schemes (regardless of human or animal) because to do so was to curse himself in the foot (not that he could anyhow, as those ventures were being shredded by Detective Kwame Gamp, and the Investigations Department since Hermione’s retrieval) and he felt he hand more sense than that, anyhow.

He had, however, taken to eclipsing their share of trades in potion ingredients and wand making materials, working alongside (rather than adjacent) to the Prince monopoly, creating rapport with the former staunch supporters of the Malfoy family, which is where the majority of the letters in front of him were from.

Though he kept his business within the wizarding community generally above board, however, that didn’t prevent him from building a decent cover for himself regardless, after all, those poor children needed a home until their families were found, no?

He had purchased a manor house in Brighton, and had offered it up to the Ministry as a charitable donation, further securing the philanthropic image he portrayed to confuse his opponents and critics, and hide his more ‘nefarious’ acts. He snorted, being in the public eye was nothing but a big game to him, it was entertaining to witness how many people believed this false persona he put forward, unfortunately, the one person he truly wanted to fool, wasn’t buying any of it.

Hermione had been…a puzzle since his stunt, she’d become noticeably needier, but still suspicious of anything he did. Though he was pleased his stunt finally had her in his bed every night, as she refused to step foot in her room anymore, it came at the staunch refusal of sex. He sighed through his nose, he was going on three months of celibacy, as the last time they’d had sex was the morning of her kidnapping, but he digressed, it was an annoyance he could tolerate. She was still by his side, she hadn’t left, and for him, that was enough to work with, besides…it wouldn’t be long now, she would soon have a piece of him with her always, he just had to be patient.

He began to sort through the letters, one topic that had been on his mind, however, despite his continuous successes, had been his knights. It was no secret that they were distracted, living their own lives, but now that Lucius Malfoy was out of the way, it was high time he brings them back, and closer than ever before, after all, they were the future that would replace the current shot-callers of pureblood society (with their detestable, ambiguous at best, support).

He abandoned the letters, placing his hands behind his head and scanned his office idly, it was as his eyes landed on his personal shelf, that he froze. That was where he kept his more ‘questionable’ collection of books that he did not want anyone to touch, even having gone so far as to charm them so that only he could remove them from their spots.

His darker works were there (transfigured, of course), like Secrets of the Darkest Art by Owl Bullock, and the texts he’d acquired while creating the wards on Riddle Manor.

He then stood up, an idea forming in his head as he approached the shelves. He slid a finger along the spines until he came across the title he was looking for. It was that extra little book he had bought years ago, back when Hermione hadn’t been his yet, and he hadn’t won his seat, he read the title ‘Of Love and Loyalty’ by Alphonse Laurent.

He had originally read through this years ago, but at the time, he had decided that he hadn’t yet been in a favourable enough position publicly to use any of it, and over the years, he’d forgotten about it, but now? Now just might be the appropriate moment to utilize its information. He flipped through the pages until he came upon the one that detailed the marking of the loyal and scanned the text once more, a plan taking shape in his mind’s eye with every word he read.

Yes, this would do beautifully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a really long chapter, but then, it's more of a bridge for future events. I started school last week, so I've been super busy (which has actually been pretty great for my mental health, because I'm too busy to panic and overthink about every little thing) and I find writing this story is like a nice break for me, once I finish my readings and assignments.
> 
> Also, I'd like once again to condemn J K. Rowling, transphobia has absolutely no place in my story or my life, and I stand with my trans brothers and sisters. 
> 
> Trans women ARE WOMEN.  
> Trans men ARE MEN.
> 
> and some of you may have missed it, but I've written Jas as a trans lesbian, so here's your daily reminder.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


	14. Chapter 13 - A Theory

**Trigger warning: rape scene near the end of the first part of the chapter (I will mark where it starts)**

Chapter 13 – Grimmauld Place – September 12th, 1947

“Absolute shame, really,” Walburga tsked, her graying hair slicked back into a severe bun, smirk twitching at her lips as she took a sip from her wine glass. Bellatrix, at this point of the night, had become proficient in drowning her out and did so again just now as she took a swig from her own glass.

“Mother don’t be crass,” replied her older cousin Regulus, not even looking up as he cut his steak, “he’s not even cold in the ground yet, show some decorum,” he reprimanded his mother. She was reminded again of why she was here, her father, Cygnus Black, had passed away the day before and at this point, if anything else deemed now to be a good time to go wrong, she would not even be surprised.

Currently, she was dining at her aunt Walburga’s house in London, to commemorate Cygnus’s passing since he had been her brother (because, apparently, a Rosier can’t be expected to do anything right, even though her mother hasn’t been a Rosier in over 40 years). Suffice to say, Walburga Black was certainly a piece of work, a staunch blood purity fanatic, she saw enemies and inferiority everywhere, including within their own community.  
  
Why was she here again? Oh, right, her father was dead.

“I’m only stating what everyone is thinking, Reggie dear, Cygnus is dead, Narcissa is languishing in Azkaban because he had insisted on her marriage to a Malfoy, and now who knows? Dear Bella here might be next because he’d been so concerned with marrying rich, that he didn’t care for the dignity of the family,” she chortled, “and let’s not forget that muggle-chasing slag, Andromeda, I heard she whelped a half-blood recently, disdainful, really, a stain on the House of Black,” she sniffed, and Bella downed her glass to refrain from snapping, reaching once more for the bottle to refill it.

This wasn’t to say her aunt’s words, however harsh, didn’t resonate with her, she was right, her father had pushed the Lestrange engagement upon her before she had even finished her final year of Hogwarts, eager for the status it would bring. Quite like the status he gained marrying Narcissa to the Malfoy heir before Bella had even been born, but now her eldest sister (by twenty years) was in Azkaban, paying for the Malfoy crimes, and she, herself, probably wasn’t very far off.

She held in a grimace as she took another sip, reminded that she would need to go back home and deal with Roddy some more, a task she wasn’t looking forward to as he’d been unbearable since the Malfoy fall.

“Really though, to marry your daughters off to families with a questionable lack of dignity, normalizing the act of rolling around in filth like animals, his legacy is nothing but a half-blood granddaughter, and two lepers on house-arrest for grandsons. Take notes Reggie for when you find a match for Carina,” Walburga continued huffing like a hot air balloon and Bella glanced at the younger girl, Regulus’s youngest child and Orion’s sister, who graduated Hogwarts a year ago, who was also currently trying to hide her face behind her water glass.

“This is hardly polite conversation for dinner, mother,” replied Regulus, utterly unfazed, and Bella went back to tuning them all out, trying to figure out when it had been in her life, that it had all gone to utter shite. Her father was dead, her mother off in France, one of her sisters were imprisoned, and the other had run away with a mudblood at the end of Bella’s sixth year, and here she was tied to the slowly sinking ship that was the Lestrange empire.

Ramsey Lestrange seemed confident that they would make it through this if they were careful, but Bella knew better, she was younger and she could see how the world was changing around them. What was acceptable twenty years ago was no longer so and with the end of the war and Grindelwald’s loss, it was only a matter of time before they were all held accountable for their actions. Unfortunately, she hadn’t seen that at eighteen when she had agreed to marry in, but saw now, that what their world needed was a true revolutionary, and it was too bad Ramsey and Roddy seemed dead set on making an enemy of the most perfect one.

Her thoughts on Tom were convoluted, to say the least, but she was certain that despite his half-blood status, he was what their world needed right now, perhaps even because of his blood status, he was their Trojan horse that would retain the support and power after Grindelwald’s loss. It was unfortunate, then, that he too was able to be compromised, which led her to think of the person she hated more than anyone else, who was none other than Hermione Granger-Riddle.

Just the thought of the filthy little slag had Bella chugging back her fourth glass of wine because deep in her heart, she felt that if that French disaster had not come to Hogwarts years ago, her sister and family would not be the social pariahs they were today, perhaps even her freedom as a married Lestrange would not be on the line, and Roddy would be manageable, she was sure of it. Perhaps even, a traitorous corner of her heart whispered, she would still have Tom, even married as she was because even though he would have been Lord Slytherin, as a half-blood, he would not have dared to deny her his bed.

Had she not even married Rodolphus, she was sure she would have even been able to wrangle a marriage out of Tom, especially in return for her family’s unconditional support, there wasn’t even a possibility that she would have been disowned either, not when she brought the status of the name Slytherin to the House of Black.

Had she married Tom, she wouldn’t be subjected now to Roddy’s tantrums and his bursts of anger and she probably wouldn’t have had to worry about the miscarriages either, as she didn’t peg Tom as being one for heirs. She would have had the power, prestige and title if that mudblood hadn’t shown her ridiculous head of curls.

Though she had to admit, his most recent proposal among the knights had unsettled all of them, herself included (especially considering he hadn’t extended the offer to her husband or his brother), her pride as a pureblood witch chafing at the idea. It was a steep move, so he had been generous enough to give them until Samhain to come to a decision, and though she had done the calculations, coming to the conclusion that the benefits would certainly outweigh the negatives, she was hesitant still to put that foot forward.

She came back to reality as dessert was placed on the table, and at this point, it was clear that she was inebriated, as the smell of sweet custard turned her stomach. She drained the last bit of her wine glass before she stood and excused herself for the evening, the room wobbling as vertigo hit her. Giving her empty platitudes to Aunt Wally, she took her carefully measured steps, only allowing herself to wobble a bit when she was near the floo.

She took a moment to collect herself as she took a handful of powder, trying to force some semblance of sobriety so she wouldn’t slur her destination, she called out for Lestrange House and stepped through the flames. She only made it a few steps into the hallway before Rodolphus stepped into her path as he exited his office, his hair slightly dishevelled as he ran a hand down his face wearily.

“How was dinner?” he asked, and Bella snorted.

“It would have been fine if Aunt Walburge would stop taking jabs at my dead father and all of his decisions,” she replied, her words slightly slurred as she moved passed him to the main staircase, gripping the handrail tightly as she climbed the steps, vaguely aware that he was following her.

“Sounds like Walburga Black,” he chuckled from behind her and a part of her wanted to comment on his good mood, while the part of her that still had sense decided it was probably best that she didn’t. She didn’t bother replying as she entered her room, lifting her hands to begin removing her earrings, and frowning as she registered that he’d followed her into her room, turning sharply as he closed the door.

“What are you doing?” she asked, adrenaline spiking sharply in her. Unless they were trying for an heir, they kept to their separate rooms, but since her second miscarriage, they hadn’t attempted again. He stepped forward to her and she took a step back.

“Did you think I would not find out?” he began calmly, undoing the buttons of his robes and she scowled.

“Find out what?” she retorted, eyes tracing his fingers as they meticulously unclipped each silver button as she continuously tried to put some space between them. When that didn’t work, she flicked her wrist to release her wand from its holster, gripping it tightly as it flew upward into her hand.

“That half-blooded snake’s plan? Did you think I would let my wife join such a ridiculous group? To be marked like cattle?” he drawled, his wand in his own hand, “It seems I have to remind you of who it is you are married to,” shrugging off his robes, standing there in nothing but his briefs and looking at the wand in her hand with an amused expression.

“Will you attack your husband, Madame Lestrange?” he asked in good humour.

Bellatrix snarled and shot a hex at him, not even blinking as he bats it away effortlessly, and she cursed inebriated state as it smashed into a vase to his right. She watched as the good humour melted from his visage and she felt a spike of fear. He began raining down curses on her, and she became disoriented quickly from having to move quickly, and she was certain that her movements were sluggish, as well as her reactions delayed, despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

* * *

**(Tw: rape)**

It was minutes later when her wand flew out of her hand, so she tried a different tactic, instead, trying to run past him, trying to use the distraction to get out of the room until an _incarcerous_ tangled around her ankles and she fell to the floor on her side.

“You are my wife, and _this,_ this is an end to the disrespect,” he snarled, advancing on her, where she managed to lift her head enough to spit at his feet.

“Fuck you.”

“ _Crucio.”_

Just like that, every nerve ending in her body lit up like a yule log, and she had no idea how long she thrashed and screamed for, but she knew for sure that she had bitten her tongue as she could feel the blood fill her mouth and trail down her throat. The spell ended after what felt like an eternity and she couldn’t even open her eyes, her body jerking as he nudged her with his foot onto her stomach and kneeled down and gripped her hips, pulling them back so that she was on her knees. She barely registered that the incarcerous around her ankles was removed and that her robes had been lifted to her lower back. She sobbed as she felt him pull aside her knickers and thrust in harshly, ripping against her unaroused entrance like sandpaper.

He continued to build momentum, and she could swear that it felt like he was stabbing her, while his hand fisted itself into her hair, grinding her temple against the floor, so roughly that she couldn’t see through the strands that had fallen in front of her eyes.

He snapped his hips again and she grunted in pain before snapping her eyes shut, counting in her mind and waiting for it to be over, and after what had felt like years, where she still spasmed from his prolonged use of the cruciatus curse, she mercifully felt him pick up his pace. He slammed into her with brutal force, while the force of his hand was grounding her face into the rough material of the carpet, scratching her face, until he finally stilled, letting out the most unflattering grunt she had ever heard, before he slid out of her with a sickening squelch and got to his feet slowly.

Bella fell to her side and from her vantage point, she could see the smear of blood on the inside of her thigh, to which she quickly avoided her gaze, eyes burning with sheer indignation.

**(end)**

* * *

Rodolphus said something but she had tuned it out, ignoring his presence until he was gone, focusing on a specific area of the patterned wallpaper until she was positive she was alone again. When she came back to reality, she slowly got to her feet, all of her joints aching, and a pervasive lump in her throat that made it hard for her to swallow her own spit. She shakily walked over to where he dropped her wand before he left, and cleaned the evidence of her violation, both from her body and the floor, healing her tongue and the carpet burn along the side of her face. She then walked downstairs to the main floo and grabbing a handful of powder, she kneeled in front of the hearth before tossing it in, calling for Alcazar Deslizan.

Within a few minutes, Tom’s face appeared in the flames, where he took one look at her dishevelled hair and smeared makeup and allowed her to come through. When she did, she barely registered him standing there as impressive as always, because she had kneeled to the ground slowly and presented her arm.

“Are you certain? Once I do this, there is no turning back,” he asked calmly.

“I accept your proposal, and from this day forward, I am loyal to you and only you,” she responded softly, making purposeful eye contact, allowing him to see what had been done to her.

And with a curt nod, he placed the tip of his wand against the soft flesh of the inside of her forearm.

Javehri & Potter Firm – October 19th, 1947

Hermione signed off on another document before leaning back in her chair and raising her arms above her head, earning a satisfying crack from her back. She laced her fingers together and rested the back of her hands on her forehead, closing her eyes and tilting her head up, she stayed like that for a minute before bringing her arms down and glancing at the clock.

It was minutes to four in the afternoon, and about a decent hour to begin packing up for the day, so she flipped all of her files closed and rolled any parchments tight before storing them in her drawer and charming it locked.

She had decided to resume going to work almost immediately after waking up from her ‘coma’, unable to sit stationary for even a second anymore, though Madam Potter had insisted that it would have been acceptable for her to take some time off, considering the trauma she had been subjected to. Even her friends had expressed their concerns of her going back to work so fast, but none of them seemed to understand, and it made her feel as if she was losing her mind because she was positive those two months of solitary confinement had been real, though she’d had nothing to prove it.

She had even gone and searched her file at St. Mungos, but found that it corroborated with what Tom had told her, with written observations from a healer, who she had spoken to, to no avail.

Hermione absolutely loathed how stubbornly illogical she felt, when all logic and evidence pointed towards the absolute certainty that she had been asleep (even going so far as to go back to her room, against her comfort, to investigate from floor to ceiling, anything that could have validated her experience), she couldn’t help the feeling of unease that settled in her bones.

So, in response, she’d done the only thing she could do, and that was work. She built her bill, she visited the children in the manor that Tom had volunteered for them, and she threw herself into uncovering ‘Le Plafond de Verre’, with Jas, pretending that everything was okay, when in fact, it was the furthest thing.

Her trauma became glaring in her anxiety over the very thought of being intimate, and she knew that despite wanting Tom’s physical affection, it would be a while before she consented to anything more, and though she was sure he was hardly pleased over it, she appreciated that he hadn’t forced the issue.

As for the muggleborn children, a vast majority of them dealt with their own trauma, a few had yet to say anything at all since the ordeal, some had issues sleeping and a handful were irrationally angry the majority of the time at insignificant things. Hermione’s heart hurt for all of them, they were just children and they were all hurting, so it was another reason she was so fervent about taking down the glass ceiling, and why she worked so hard now on her newest bill, to which she could not be persuaded from not including an anti-discrimination clause, and she did all of it without addressing her own hurt and her own trauma.

She shoved her problems to the very back of her mind because she felt that if she didn’t, then it was like she was drowning in them all over again, drowning in this victim mentality that she refused to be boxed into. She ignored or redirected concerned stares and questions, focusing on different relevant topics at hand, and before she knew it, it was mid-October and she couldn’t recall much of the passing months, so focused she’d been in paying attention to everything else but herself.

Her twenty-second birthday had passed in a blink, as well as Harry and Ginny’s wedding a week ago. Hermione could only remember snippets if she tried, it had been a grand affair that had been a mix of Harry and Ginny’s cultures to celebrate their different beliefs and union. There had been hundreds of people, a lot of Harry’s family from India had made the trip, and a good portion of the UK wizarding world had been invited as well. She remembered that she hadn’t stayed long, the crowd of people triggering her flight or fight response, in which flight had won.

Leo had started his sixth year of Hogwarts unenthusiastically and she’d had to dodge his expectant looks throughout the summer because she knew, in a way, that he’d been right, he had been right to suggest leaving the UK and part of her felt like she was making excuses to not do so now.

Perhaps a part of her clung to the UK because of her friends, because of Tom, or because she was financially comfortable with a good career, but the fact of the matter was, that deep in her heart, she was staying because of her irrational fear of being wrong. She had chosen to stay, chosen to pursue a career, chose Tom, and in the face of a sixteen-year-old boy candidly pointing out that the UK hadn’t done her any favours, her natural response was to dig in her heels deeper. This, of course, was to say nothing of the anxiety that gripped her bones at the very thought of leaving Tom, vulnerable as she still was, a reality she didn’t like to dwell on.

Hermione slipped on her cloak and knocked on Madam Potter’s door to wish her a good evening before making her way to the floo. Grabbing a handful of powder, she studied it for a moment before tossing it into the hearth, changing her plans from heading home to Slytherin Castle to the flat instead, figuring that it had been roughly two weeks since she’s checked for mail and that she ought to not avoid it much longer.

In July, Jas had invited her over for tea and had presented a letter to her from a name that she, admittedly, hadn’t thought of in awhile. Her mother’s uncle (or, she supposes, her great uncle) Mateo Innocenti had apparently seen her name in the news upon the Malfoy trafficking bust, which had become an international scoop, reaching Argentina, essentially informing him that she was magical, allowing him to reveal himself as a ‘sangue-nuovo’ to her in return.

She had since kept up with him, learning more about him (he had attended a local school in Genoa and had been sixteen years older than her mother’s mother), why he had left Italy for Argentina (convoluted socio-political sphere that endangered his life as both a magical and a new one at that) and learning of his family now (he had married an Argentinian witch by the name of Marisol Gomez y Vera and had had four children, to which he boasts his nine grandchildren and one great-grandchild, all of whom were magical, so far).

In return, she had written to him about Martinique, about her mother, papa and mamie, about the attack of Beauxbatons and their escape to the UK, about her career here, her friends, Leo, and eventually, of Tom, though hesitantly because she hadn’t wanted to be judged harshly on her decision to stay with him. Fortunately, he hadn’t written his thoughts of that until this point, but she was dreading it all the same, which is why she hadn’t been by the flat to check in a bit.

As she stepped into the sitting room, she noted that Jas wasn’t home yet and in the basket by the window (that her friend had placed there for her mail) she saw a singular letter. So, with a sigh and a brace for strength, she cautiously pulled it out and blinked in surprise because it felt like it had weight to it.

Frowning, she slid her nail under the envelope’s flap and popped the wax seal, turning it upside-down to empty the contents into her hand. She stared minutely at the small vial that landed there, which contained what was obviously a memory, furrowing her brow, she then pulled out the accompanying letter and unfolded it, scanning the foreign words lightly before unholstering her wand and whispering the translation charm.

 _I cannot pretend that I do not worry over your choices, though,_  
stranger that I am to you still, I will not patronize you now. Just know,   
that when you are ready, we are here, and you will be welcome.

_Your uncle_

_-Mateo Innocenti_

It was straightforward and Hermione felt the lump build in her throat, genuinely touched by the gesture and frustrated with herself simultaneously. She blinked away the dampness from her eyes and stuffed the memory back into the envelope with the letter and made her way to the office to tuck in away in her desk, and furthermore, tucking away the knowledge of its existence to the back of her mind as she returned to the sitting room. She gave Crookshanks an absentminded pet as he swatted at her from his position on the couch, analyzing the room blankly before reaching to scoop a handful of floor powder and returning to Slytherin Castle.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – October 23rd, 1947

Leo stared resolutely at the surface of the desk, unwilling to look Professor Weasley in the face, who stared at him with a calm, albeit disappointed, expression from the head of the classroom. He had become overconfident, excited to test his theory that would finally give him concrete proof for all the research he’d compiled in the last year, but he’d gotten caught and was now sitting with the professor that he tried to steal a strand of hair from.

So much had happened in the last two years that had felt out of his control, from his father almost killing him, seeking refuge at Riddle Manor, his father killing Helen, Tom sponsoring him and giving him the Riddle name, to starting Hogwarts, that he almost hadn’t even been surprised when walking out of his Defence OWL at the end of last year only to be pulled aside by his head of house, Professor Shafiq, only to be informed that Hermione had been reported missing. He remembered how it had felt like his entire body had frozen, and for days being unable to focus on anything for the week that she had been gone, until the infamous Prophet issue had dropped into the Great Hall revealing the Malfoy trafficking ring, it was then that he remembered the rage hitting.

He had been furious, more than he had ever been in his life, that even when Hermione had been found, he had still been angry. It felt like nowadays, anger was his constant companion, things that never bothered him before because he didn’t find them important enough, suddenly infuriated him, and it was starting to spiral completely out of control.

He was angry at the world, for allowing this treatment to pass, angry at the snobbish purebloods who treated it as some light scandal, angry at Hermione, who hadn’t agreed to leave the first time he’d asked, and now he had to look at her as she was, thinner and gaunter then she’s ever been, despite her reassurances, and most of all, he was angry that nobody seemed to care.

He had let that fury simmer inside him all summer and as soon as he stepped foot back into the halls of Hogwarts, he had picked back up his research that he’d essentially abandoned the previous year in order to study for his OWLs.

Leo had continued like that for about a week before it hit him, or, well, a pervasive theory, at least, which asked why there had even been a trafficking ring for muggleborns? It made no sense to him, there had to be a reason for it, besides sick perversion, so it was then that he had critically gone through his notes, eventually noticing a disturbing pattern, and that was that there seemed to be a pureblood birth, sometimes multiple, that coincided with the disappearances of muggleborns.

And at first, he hadn’t wanted to consider the implications, being too disturbed by them, so he had continued to compile his research, eventually hitting mid to late 1800s, until he reached a coincidence he simply couldn’t ignore.

In 1868, upon the disappearance of Minister Nobby Leach, almost ten months from the day of the disappearance, Bilius Weasley and his wife Margaret (née Bones), after being plagued by infertility for years, had welcomed twin boys, Septimus and Ignatius Weasley born December of 1868, but what had caught his eye was that the younger sister of Bilius, Agnes, had died within the same month. Her cause of death had been listed as tuberculosis, which wasn’t too far-fetched as the decidedly “muggle” illness had ravaged the wizarding world in the 1870s, what was suspect was mainly the timing, as well as Agnes Weasley being reported to be a squib, and furthermore, that she’d only been fifteen upon her death.

The question was, where would a fifteen-year-old squib pick up tuberculosis when there is no record of any other Weasley having contracted the sickness? Especially as a young girl who had likely not been allowed to leave the property?

Leo had eagerly searched further down the Weasley line, looking for anything that may have validated his theory, which led him to find that Professor Weasley was the great-grandchild of Bilius Weasley, and there was only one way he was going to be able to find the truth.

“Mr. Riddle, you do understand the severity of your actions, don’t you?”

Leo snapped out of his daze as Professor Weasley addressed him but didn’t dare take his eyes away from the desk in front of him. He had figured it would be risky, and that it was highly illegal, but he had been spurred on in hopes of proving his theory, that he hadn’t thought out his method well enough. He heard the professor sigh.

“I understand that you turned seventeen a week ago, this means you are no longer protected as a minor in the face of criminal charges. Trying to obtain any type of organic material from a witch or wizard is a high offence, which I am sure you’re aware of, as you’ve clocked a solid Exceeds Expectations on your Magical Law OWL,” he calmly intoned and Leo could see from his frontal periphery that he had laced his long pale fingers together over the desk.

“I am trying to give you the opportunity to explain yourself, if not, I will have to notify the headmaster as well as law enforcement,” he finished, tone disappointed. Leo bit his tongue, wanting to be literally anywhere else right now. He was in quite the dilemma because on one hand, if he shared his research and theory with the professor, it could go two ways, either the professor helps him with his research, or the professor forwards his research over to the authorities, notifying whoever was in charge of the operation (if he was correct) effectively putting a target on his back.

On the other hand, if he said nothing, he would likely be expelled and may even face time in Azkaban, where he would be of not help to anybody, so it was a tough choice and honestly, he hadn’t actually considered what he’d do with the information once he’d discovered it, too distracted by the actual process of the research itself.

And on another hand, if he were to tell anyone, wouldn’t Bill Weasley be of a decent sort? He _was_ married to the witch who had apparently saved Hermione’s life back at Beauxbatons, and Hermione knew them all well, and he had even spent Beltane at the Burrow, so surely they would be one of the good ones? At least nowadays? (again, if his theory was correct).

But then again, Hermione sometimes didn’t have the best judgement, her relationship with Tom and her refusal to leave the UK despite it’s heaped abuse upon her was a large indication of that. He allowed his thoughts to spiral more, almost not hearing the Professor speak again.

“It seems you leave me no choi-“

“-Wait.”

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he reached awkwardly from his slouched position in the chair, to his bad on the floor beside the desk’s leg, opening the flap and digging around before pulling out his two never-ending journals that consisted of all of his research. He then stood, holding them in his hands lightly, before hesitantly placing them onto the Professor’s desk and retaking his seat, re-slouching and crossing his arms over his chest.

He only vaguely paid attention at the Professor flipped through the first one, which had the black leather binding, indicating it was the muggleborn journal, Weasley’s frown deepening as he flipped through hundreds of pages of muggleborn statistics while Leo was hoping he didn’t regret this decision.

“This is an extensive amount of research, Mr. Riddle, can you tell me more about it?” Professor Weasley asked as he finished skimming the books. Leo took a deep breath and began:

“Well, sir, I had a theory…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! That took me forever to write! 
> 
> Sorry, it's a been a hot minute, between school and work, I barely have time to just breathe for a second. I even had to pause from typing this, like, an hour ago cause I had just remembered I had an online test that was due by midnight D:
> 
> A lot happened in this chapter, I'd also like to formally apologize for those who were not expecting that type of explicit material, I had tagged them and sectioned it out, so hopefully, if you're sensitive to that topic, I was able to give you clear enough warning to avoid if needed. I would like to try and get the next chapter up by next week, however, if I cannot (which is likely cause next week is midterms), the week after for sure (cause its my reading week, which means I have the whole week off).
> 
> Anyhow, again, sorry for the wait, and I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter and are all safe and healthy!
> 
> Side note: It's spooky season, and my current recommendation is to watch HBO's Lovecraft Country because it is literal b a n a n a s . for real, I can't even explain it, it's just so good and creepy.


	15. Chapter 14 - I Put a Spell on You

_"You know I love you_   
_I love you_   
_I love you_   
_I love you anyhow_   
_And I don't care if you don't want me_   
_I'm yours right now_

_I put a spell on you_   
_Because you're mine"_

_-Jalacy "Screaming Jay" Hawkins  
( "I Put a Spell on You" - 1956)_

**dub-con near the end.**

???-???

Hermione jerked her head up, confusion racing through her as she took in her surroundings, she felt disoriented, as if she’d taken a particularly long nap and didn’t know what day it was upon waking. Oddly enough, she recognized her surroundings, however, they did nothing to clear her bamboozlement. She was in the Hogwarts library and there was a book open in front of her on the table, though she couldn’t make out any of the words, as they all seemed to blur together upon attempting to read them. Her head had been in her hands, and her robes were of the standard Hogwarts black, and this was to say nothing of the vicious sense of déjà vu that was making her head spin, as she continued to squint at the blurred words in front of her.

“What’s wrong?”

She snapped out of her thoughts, only just registering that she wasn’t alone. Tom sat across from her and he looked…off? She analyzed him, he was wearing his own uniform robes, and his hair was the same, falling over one side of his forehead in its usual cowlick, but she could swear that his face seemed slightly rounder, and his stubble wasn’t as pronounced as it usually was, despite his usual efforts to maintain it.

“Did you shave?” she asked spontaneously, trying to understand what it was that made him different. He blinked in surprise but instead of waiting for his answer, she turned in her seat and looked around, “why are we here?” she asked, before turning back to look at him.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked slowly, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms, answering her question with another, in a manner that was so very…him. She had no idea what was happening, so she decided to play along and perhaps she would find some answers.

“What is?” she asked, leaning forward.

“You’re dreaming, luv,” he explained, and she squinted at him in confusion. Since when did her call her ‘luv’? In fact, his whole accent was slightly off, though she recognized that there were still traces of the received pronunciation he usually spoke with, there was a twang somewhere in there that was reminiscent of something else, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

Also, he said she was dreaming, but despite all of the times she dreamt of him (her face heating at the recollection), this was the first time she’s actually seen him, and even lucid like she was now. Usually in her dreams, she simply…felt him, like she knew he was there, but he’d never shown himself physically, as well as there had never actually been a structured location as there was now, it was usually a feeling of intimacy and eroticism that she remembered once awake, odd as it sounded.

So, what was different now?

She leaned back in her chair, tapping her fingers on the tabletop when something caught her attention, she glanced at her hand and noticed that she wasn’t wearing his ring anymore, in fact, it was on his own hand instead. It dawned on her then, but she kept her face neutral so as to not alert him, despite studying her as he was currently. He was younger here, it explained why he looked so different and why his accent was off, the Tom in front of her now was not the Tom she knew outside in the waking world, but the imitation that seemed to be connected to his ring, somehow.

She felt a flare of vindication warm her, she had been beginning to think that she had imagined it all, as she hadn’t dreamt of him (like she had in the beginning when he first gave her the ring to wear) in months. Hermione tried not to get ahead of herself, if she was right about this, that meant she might be right about the confinement, she just needed to play her cards right and perhaps she would find some answers at last. If this Tom was younger, like she thought, perhaps he was bound to slip up more than his present counterpart.

“I’m dreaming, but you didn’t answer my question, why are we here? Of all places?” she asked, remembering vaguely that he used to sit with her at this very table when she had been self-studying for her Magical Law NEWT, and thinking about it now, it felt like eons ago. He hummed thoughtfully, bringing his hand to tap at the table with his fingers, mirroring her actions, a slow smile curling on his lips.

“I decided it might be fun to revisit some old memories, do you remember? This particular one was when Ronald Weasley broke up with you,” he chuckled, “you had been quite distraught.” She grits her teeth and nodded stiffly, remembering vividly, she had also properly met and befriended Jas that day, but she didn’t mention that part, sure that he wouldn’t want to hear it.

“I remember, you were being an arse, so I left,” she sniffed, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously, she decided to ask what she’d been wondering, “now, what I don’t understand is how I can see you when I’ve never been able to before, so what’s different?” she felt her ears burn at the reference to the other dreams but persisted anyway, raising an eyebrow, hoping it would prompt him into answering.

“Who says I wanted to show myself before?” he countered, mischievousness dancing in his eyes, as his mouth pulled into a sly smile, showing his straight teeth. She scoffed at his answer, it was a standard deflection, which told her there was a reason he hadn’t and that he just didn’t want her to know, but she played along anyway.

“Why wouldn’t you? You’ve never been shy about boasting your ‘ownership’ over me before, self-perceived as it is,” she mocked, something that she normally wouldn’t do, not unless she knew she had the upper hand, but her gamble was to trip him up. She watched the amusement fall from his face, as he got up and walked around the table to stand behind her, she sat stone still in apprehension for his reaction and wasn’t disappointed as a hand snaked around her throat and jerked her head to the side. He leaned over her and pressed his lips to her jaw, his other hand pushing down on her shoulder to keep her seated, he huffed a laugh before gently kissing her temple.

“You think you’re not mine?” he began, hand moving from her throat to grip her jaw, “I’d argue that after tonight, you will be more mine than you’ve ever been before, luv,” he murmured, voice low and she considered his words. Why tonight? What was different about tonight? Hermione let her mind scramble, trying to remember any indicators that would bring the date from her subconscious memory. She remembered that she visited her papa’s grave recently, as his birthday had recently passed, and before that, she’d sent Leo a new expensive set of quills and ink for his birthday, which meant that it was late October.

It felt like right then and there that an icy hand had gripped her spine, late October meant Samhain, and she could list a handful of practices and rituals off the top of her head that involved the holiday. She was broken from her train of thought when that hand that was on her shoulder trailed lower, gripping and pulling at her robes until he had access to the apex of her thighs and she felt her anxiety pitch immediately.

“But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I have so many more memories to go through and the night is young, this is just the first in which I remember so vividly how much I wanted to fuck you,” he whispered, trailing the shell of her ear while he plunged two fingers into her, and she choked on a gasp, her ears ringing as she gripped at his wrist to stop him.

“It’s going to be a long night for you, luv.”

Alcazar Deslizan – October 29th, 1947

Tom’s footsteps echoed as he climbed down to the dungeon of his home, mind working a mile a minute on everything that needed to be done tonight, it was minutes to midnight and tonight was the night that he would make Hermione into a Horcrux. The evening thus far had been spent holding the Samhain celebration for the magicals of Cape Clear Island outside of the castle (and the purebloods inside the castle, another of his acts to play the philanthropic/devout and agreeable Lord Slytherin he spoon-fed them all, though Hermione had abstained from joining), bonfires had been lit and a massive feast had been served to everyone to honour the harvest before all the guests left to complete their observances in private with their families.

Soon it would be the thirtieth of October, the magical community choosing to celebrate on the twenty-ninth to coincide with the full moon, rather than the thirty-first as the muggles celebrated their Halloween.

Alcazar Deslizan had a small chapel on the ground floor of the east wing of the castle that was for these regular observances, it was where he’d set up his altar with the offerings for his ancestors, glibly adding his father’s journal every year (as well as other belongings of various Slytherin ancestors), knowing that he would probably hate being honoured through magic. Though, if he was being honest, he wasn’t doing it to be entirely ungrateful, Tom recognized that it was due to his Riddle blood that he had benefitted so greatly in the passing years, so, he did it because it felt fitting (but also because it was amusing).

As for his plan tonight, he had finally come to the decision weeks ago and had begun preparing henceforth, from the sacrifice, to the exact hour in which he would complete the transfer, deciding Samhain to be his biggest strength, as it was when the veil to the land of the dead was at it’s thinnest, and soul magic was at it’s most powerful. He figured he would need it, to attempt such a venture as creating a soul container that was not just out of another living being, but a human at that. The boost that Samhain would give him, specifically the hours before dawn, would ensure a lower chance of anything backfiring, or Hermione becoming damaged in the process.

He had, of course, considered the risks of performing such a risky transference for his fourth Horcrux, four not being nearly as powerful of a number as three or seven, however, four, though not necessarily powerful, did symbolize something he valued in his relationship with Hermione. It symbolized completeness, in a way that he felt was appropriate, there were four seasons, four cardinal directions and four elements, it was stability and endurance, two identifiers that his relationship with her could, admittedly, use strengthening of, especially considering her recent mistrust of him due to her recent hardships (which were completely warranted, if he was frank).

Though there was a niggling sense of unease that curdled in his gut, derived, perhaps, from his conscious (something he resolutely stamped down on the daily) that echoed in his brain with increasing volume, that his reasoning to commit to this act stemmed from his fear of her leaving him. Her suspicion (he had been notified, by the healer under his pay, that she had attempted to view her file at St. Mungos) had begun to make him paranoid, something he’d never thought he’d become, so in retaliation, he had doubled-down and continued to cover potential lose-ends.

Even traumatized as she was, she was still impressively perceptive, and he just counted his blessings that her rule-abiding, proof-needing personality worked in his favour for once. All the same, unease notwithstanding, he was comforted in the fact that after tonight, they would be connected in a way that only death could undo, and if he had anything to say about that (he did), then that would never come to pass.

As he reached the bottom of the stairwell, he thought of her for a moment, curled in his bed several floors up and his resolve steadied, undoing the complicated series of wards, he reached for the handle and opened the door. Sliding in and reclosing it behind him, he redid the wards before making his way down the dank hallway.

Tom reached the bars of the gate that separated him from his sacrifice and felt a vicious satisfaction burn through him. He cocked his head to the side in purposeful condensation, observing the pathetic excuse of a wizard curled at his feet, a smile reached his lips.

“Hello, Draco.”

Hermione’s Dream

Hermione snapped back to reality, or as much of a reality in a dream, anyhow, head pounding as she reached to pat her hair, confused to find it in braids when moments ago it had been free. Her eyes narrowed, trying to focus and find out where (or when) she was now, only to find herself at eye-level with her mother’s Agatha Christie collection (though she still couldn’t make out the words, she was familiar enough with the width and colours of them to recognize them on sight) and instantly knew which memory she was in.

She spun around before the inevitable tug on her braid and darted towards one of the tables, placing it between them, heart pounding in her chest and strangely in sync with her brain in her head.

Tom stood there, in muggle clothes, as he had that day, and slid his hands into his pockets, head tilted to the side as if amused by her antics. She’d come to the conclusion that she’d made an error within the last memory, she had assumed that because he was younger than the Tom she knew, that the only difference would be his level of cunning. Now, to a point, she’d been correct, because her Tom would have never revealed that information that had tipped her off to Samhain, but what she grievously hadn’t accounted for was the savagery and overall lack of control of this incarnation.

Her Tom, who had never attempted to force himself on her, was loads different from this Tom, who seemed to have no compunction about such an act now and she was grateful that in her panic, she had managed to eject herself from the previous memory before he had gone any further.

Unfortunately, however, instead of waking up, she’d only shot herself into the next memory he had lined up, and it worried her that he was able to manipulate her memories and unconscious mind like this. She grabbed the back of the chair, ready to toss it behind her in whichever direction she ran, satisfied that at least he didn’t seem to have a wand or magic.

Hermione sized him up as he began prowling, the door was behind him and she had no idea how leaving the room would even play out if she tried to make a break for it, so instead, she made up her mind to dig for answers.

“So…what ritual is outside you attempting that requires the timing of Samhain?” she threw out, tone curious and light, watching in real-time as his eyes narrowed at her, and when he didn’t immediately answer, she continued.

“Now, let’s see, off the top of my head, the types of magic that are the most powerful at this time are…divination, herbology, at least in regards to reaping the harvest, and, well, of course, necromancy…” she trailed off because her mind at that moment latched on to a fleeting thought.

“Necromancy…” she repeated thoughtfully, giving him a critical once over, eyes tracing the lines of his more youthful features. Necromancy was the act of communing with the souls of the departed…and as if an alarm rang in her mind, forcing her thoughts to a screeching halt, she latched onto that last thought.

…Souls…or soul? Her mind raced a mile a minute, trying desperately to connect the dots to something that felt monumental.

What about a piece of a soul?

She watched as his smirk settled into a frown and considered the implications, she had never heard of anything like it, and she’d always found the subject of ‘soul magic’ to be as hogwash as crystal-ball reading, with its tales of soulmates and other outlandish nonsense. As far as Hermione knew, the soul existed, just that nobody could agree to what degree it existed or for what purpose, only that it was commonly accepted that killing damaged the soul of the murderer.

She froze at that new thought, if this was, as she thought, a piece of Tom’s soul, would he have had to kill someone to damage his soul enough to transfer a piece of it into his ring? Her gut twisted at the thought and she viciously denied it, he wouldn’t, she was positive of that.

…wasn’t she?

She _had_ wondered how it had been possible for the ring to imitate him so convincingly, but what if the ring hadn’t been imitating him in some convoluted set of charms, but that it _was_ him? That would explain why this wasn’t her Tom because that meant that maybe this Tom was just a piece of him, frozen in time and also from a time before he had ever met her, which was why some of his mannerisms and behaviour seemed so bizarre to her.

Surely soul magic could be seen as an extension of necromancy? And since it was Samhain, if he was a piece of Tom’s soul, perhaps that had been the reason he had never shown himself physically in her dreams before, because it was only now that he’d had the power to do so.

“Oh, you are quite perceptive, aren’t you?” he murmured, leaning forward and bracing his arms on the table across from her, causing her to jerk out of her thoughts. Startled that she hadn’t noticed him move, she took a few steps back, losing the defence of her chair, which he took as a queue to lunge to the left.

No longer holding onto the chair, she darted to the right, making a break for the door, her heart in her throat, unfortunately, she’d forgotten about the length of her braids because she didn’t get far before his hand tangled in them and yanked her back against him. She screamed and reached behind her to claw at his face, shocking him into letting her go, to which she took full advantage of to run for the door again, only to run into his arms again, but this time in a different memory.

Now, they were in the gated restricted section of Flourish & Blotts, from the time he had escorted her during their first winter hols. He quickly restrained her hands above her head and placed a knee between her legs while she struggled, holding her hips in place with his own.

“Why are you doing this?” she bit out, turning her face away from his as he shuffled her wrists into one of his hands while bringing his other down to the buttons of her cloak, leaving small nicks along her jaw and throat while she tried to buck him off.

“Because this is where you belong,” he began softly, nipping at her ear, “under me, in the only role you could ever be worthy of, filthy-blooded as you are,” he finished and she froze, absorbing what he’d said.

How had she forgotten? That the person he had been when she’d first met him had been a monstrous racist? It felt like a slap to the face to be reminded so callously and feeling both hot and cold with rage and bitterness at both the reminder, and his words, she was about to snap back when he cut her off.

“My outside self has fooled himself into thinking that you could be anything more,” he scoffed, “that you could be our soulmate and that you are worthy of our patience and regard. Truly, the outside me is so close to ruining everything, just by loving you, while pretending and telling himself that he doesn’t,” he jibed mockingly, as he popped open the last button on her cloak.

“Love me? No, you must be mistaken,” she refuted stubbornly, using the moment he pulled his face away to leer at her condescendingly to snap her head forward, rewarding her with the sound of a sickening crunch as her forehead collided with his nose.

This surprised him into letting her wrists go, allowing her to then push him back into the shelf across from them, making him lose his balance. Hermione then tore herself away from him, making a dash for the door, which glowed bright and stumbling through it, she fell onto her hands and knees, this time into a mess of pillows and blankets on the floor of the sitting room, where Frank Sinatra’s crooning voice filled the air, complementing the warm ambience of the roaring fire and twinkling fairy lights along the mantle and on the Christmas tree in the corner of the room.

This was new years of 1945, and truly, she wasn’t even remotely surprised that this memory was on his list. Kneeling back onto her heels, she turned to where she knew he was sitting, with his elbows placed on his knees, watching her like a cat to a mouse.

“Why did you lie?” she asked, adrenaline still pumping through her veins, she needed to distract him so that she could think so a moment, and mercifully, he cocked his head to the side in curiosity.

“Lie? Care to elaborate?” he drawled, lacing his fingers together.

“You said the outside you loves me, that’s a lie,” she began, looking around the room, she gave a lazy sweep of her hand to regard it, “you know, I may have been quite drunk this night, but I do remember what you said to me. It was here that you told me that love is a weakness, that to let people into your life in such a way is to give them power over you, and that they will use it to tear you down at a later date, ergo, you must be lying,” she finished, keeping her tone challenging to encourage him into a conversation, rather than action.

His face was pensive for a moment, and she took the opportunity to think. He had said that after tonight that she would be more his than she’d ever been before, and she wanted to know more about that. At first, she considered that maybe her Tom was attempting a bonding ritual of some sort, but she wasn’t confident that it was that, as those typically needed consent from both parties, not to mention, why would he wait until Samhain to do it? And on the subject of soul magic and necromancy, could he be connecting them through that? She simply didn’t have enough information to make an educated guess and she was worried that despite the lucidity of this dream, that come waking hour, would she even remember any of this? Not to mention, if he did do something, would she even feel it?

All the same, this Tom constantly referred to outside Tom as someone completely separate from him, but this was still him, so there still had to be a bit of the Tom she knew in him, specifically, she hoped, that he could be reasoned with, like her Tom.

“I think you should ask yourself why you don’t believe me,” he chimed, after another moment of silence and she furrowed her brows at him.

‘Why don’t I want to believe him? Because it’s obvious? How could he with how he is?’ she thought, perplexed, and decided to ask for clarification.

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it, luv, the me you know outside is as different from who I am here as night and day, why do you think that is?” he asked calmly, cocking an eyebrow at her.

“You’re insinuating that because the outside you, met me, that he gradually changed, but that still doesn’t make sense,” she paused, licking her lips, “because then why would he do the things he does to me if he loved me?”

“You ask me as if I know anything about love,” he retorted dryly, “I’d rather not call it that at all, but I have no other explanation for why he affords you the privileges that he does,” he continued, before giving her a measured look.

“What I do think though…” he paused, wagging his finger at her idly, “…is that you don’t want to believe me, not because I’m wrong, but because you, in fact, love him, but also, like him, pretend and tell yourself that you don’t,” he finished and she gaped at him in utter incredulity.

“That isn’t-” she stood up in protest, ready to argue her case.

“Isn’t it?” he cut her off, reaching forward to grab at her wrists, tugging her towards him, and of course, like that night, her foot caught in the blanket, pitching her forward, where he caught her and hauled her onto his lap, shuffling her until she was straddling him. Annoyed, she pushed at his chest in an attempt to free herself, but his arms slipped around her waist, locking her in place, hands pulling at the fabric of her dress until they were scrunched up above her hips.

“He does all these awful things to you, and yet you stay, why is that?” he asked in a light tone, putting pressure on her hips to grind her down onto him. She groaned, bracing her hands on his chest, her mind trying to come up with reasons for why he was wrong, but her brain refused to cooperate through her rising arousal.

“That despite your recent refusal to fuck him, you still curl into him like a cat, and also despite your recent refusal to fuck him, he lets you,” he huffed a laugh, “any other former sexual partner would have been kicked to the side, but oh no, not you,” he chided gently, still gripping her to him, he then brought one hand between them to free himself from his robes, proceeding to tug her knickers to the side, slowly impaling her down onto him. She gasped and clenched around him, causing him to curse and slam her down the rest of the way.

‘No, that can’t be right,’ her mind protested, but upon another thrust, her mind began to lose all coherent thought. Hermione panted as she ground down onto him, letting herself give in this once, telling herself that it was just a dream, anyhow. She groaned as he gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and pursued his own tempo, until all that could be heard was there mutual erratic breathing and the slapping of skin as he continued to thrust up into her, drowning out the sounds of Frank Sinatra’s melody on the radio.

She brought a hand down to her clit to stimulate it, while his thrusts turned frantic, she moaned, building her climax until it eventually washed over her with sweet satisfaction, Tom following a few seconds later. She laid her forehead on his shoulder, attempting to catch her breath, and was about to say something when he beat her to it.

“Well, look at that, luv, looks like you’re waking up after all.”

Alcazar Deslizan – October 30th, 1947

Tom circled the twitching body on the floor, before kneeling by their head, his extended use of the cruciatus curse taking all the strength from his victim. He had taken advantage of the vow of loyalty from Abraxas that he’d extorted out of him when he’d saved his skin from Azkaban to mark him, placing him firmly in Tom’s pocket, even against his own family.

When he had requested Draco the morning before, he knew his knight had wanted to protest, but Tom had reminded him that Draco’s fate was his own fault, but also, it was Abraxas’s as well, that had he guided him better, Merlin, even reprimanded the snot once in a while, than none of this would have had to happen.

To kidnap and confine someone that he had publicly claimed as under his protection, meant that he had every right to demand his life, and so, Abraxas had complied, swearing a vow of secrecy and turning his head away as Tom rid the tracking enchantments on the younger Malfoy before spiriting him away to the dungeons of Alcazar Deslizan.

Draco Malfoy had tried to take Hermione away from him, and now, he would be instrumental in bonding him to her, while ensuring Tom’s continued quest for immortality.

“Did you honestly think that I wouldn’t retaliate?” he chided gently, while the pureblooded maggot bled all over his floor, whimpering in obvious agony. Tom sighed and pulled out his pocket watch, glancing at the arms pointing to the three and twelve, signifying that it was the beginning of the witching hour, which is when he’d plan to complete the transfer. He then snapped it shut and dropped it back into the pocket of his robes, taking aim with his spare wand to the middle of Draco Malfoy’s forehead.

“You could have had so much potential, a shame, really,” he lamented, tapping the tip of his wand against the wizard’s silver brow.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The green light flashed, illuminating the brickwork of the cell, while Malfoy’s eyes stared unseeing towards the ceiling. With another sign, Tom stood up and apparated to his room, looking down at Hermione, her brow furrowed in her sleep, noting that she had kicked the blankets off herself.

He approached the side of the bed closest to her, raising a brow when she moaned in her sleep, but refusing to distract himself, he gently pulled the sliver of his soul free and guided it over her heart, before carefully lowering it in, his other hand stretched and rested on her belly. Unlike with Kaa, there was no resistance and within seconds it was done, he waited a beat, anxiously watching her chest and waiting for it to rise, and when it did, he felt the tension leave his shoulders. He then removed his robes and slid in beside her, pulling her to him and closing his eyes, just as she opened hers.

He felt a hand on his cheek, and without opening his eyes, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, before settling into sleep, keeping a grip on her hand over his heart. He was one step closed to completing his goals, but most importantly, now, she would always be with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this one, I find that it's unclear really how the horcrux affects them in canon, aside from possible manipulation of emotions and thoughts, as well as possession (the diary) and memory sharing (the diary as well), that though Horcrux Tom would have not been the Tom experiencing all those memories, the ring was with Tom for all of them, so I thought it worked well enough that he'd know of them. Also, we know a Horcrux takes its energy from its host, but I've tried to keep the impression that he is not funnelling energy from Hermione like he did with Ginny in the second book, so I used Samhain (because it's Halloween) to boost it (also, I think it's a fan theory that the Halloween he killed Lily and James, he was planning to create a horcrux, though there isn't canonical proof of that, I still felt that it fit)
> 
> I've been wanting to update earlier, but I only had my reading week this week (which is supposed to be a week off from school) but yeah that was a sham, I had two 30% assignments due and two tests.
> 
> Anyway, I rushed to finish this for today cause it's actually my birthday today and I wanted y'all to have the gift of an update. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Happy Halloween 🎃 ! (if you celebrate it)


	16. Chapter 15 - Pays well, huh?

Horseshoe Valley Falls – Niagara, Ontario – November 14th, 1947

The first thing Jas noticed when her portkey landed was that everything was confoundingly loud and it took her half a moment to cast a disillusionment upon herself before anyone saw her, discombobulated as she was, and another moment to remove the shrunken broom from her pocket, undo the enchantment and mount it. She kicked off from the loud rooftop of some building that was cold and wet, ascending until she could see precisely where she’d landed and what was causing all that noise.

From the sky, she looked down and the sight she saw positively took her breath away because below her were the largest waterfalls she had ever seen in her life. Now, realistically, she knew that what she was looking at was the Niagara Falls, modernly known as the most powerful waterfall in the world, and the natural wonder of North America, but seeing it in person was a whole other spectacle.

Jas admired it for a minute longer before looking down to where her portkey had delivered her to, only to see a long, strange building styled with large windows on the side facing the water, and Corinthian styled pillars on the other, but that wasn’t what made it strange. What made it strange was the loud metal clanking that came from within the structure, which was the noise she’d heard, and the sound of rushing water accompanying it is what made the noise so encumbering. This wasn’t even to mention that when she had listed her destination as Niagara at the portkey office, she’d hardly expected to be dumped beside the actual falls.

Getting all the sightseeing out of her system, she steadied herself on her broom and dug her hand into her pocket to pull out the written address that Aubrey Niels’s nephew had given her, as she was the whole reason she was where she was.

In the ensuing months since that July day when she’d gone to Dublin to find information on Niels, she had since been researching common side effects of obliviation in her free time outside of work. Jas had burned through everything that the Department of Mysteries had on the subject, and had even spoken to known people in St. Mungos who’d been on the wrong end of the spell, and the only evidence of a severe lacking in mental faculties that she had found was a permanent resident, Gilderoy Lockhart, who’d been exposed as a fraud some years ago when he’d attempted to obliviate an explorer with a broken wand.

The spell had backfired spectacularly and now Lockhart was spending the remainder of his days in a state of delusion, however, that was only one case out of fifteen that she’d looked into, and nothing suggested that Aubrey Niels, even in the advanced age that she was, would be as significantly affected as her nephew insinuated.

So, here she was now, flying over Niagara, Ontario in Canada, casting warming charms for the lack of feeling in her face from the cold, to finally determine if Aubrey Niels was a reliable resource to expose the glass ceiling. Jas rubbed her hands together, address clutched tightly in her fist, blowing hot air at her fingers to try and regain feeling in them, before shuffling the paper open to read the address.

It said she lived in a town named ‘Niagara-on-the-lake’, which was why Jas had requested the portkey to Niagara instead, in case anyone behind the glass ceiling might suspect her motives, and why she’d brought a broom this time, in the event that she would have to travel far to the address. Once her warming charm brought back feeling to her extremities, she palmed her wand, tapped the address and whispered a ‘point me’.

She flew for what felt like half-an-hour, at a moderate speed until the lights ahead signalled that she was close to the town. She slowly descended, eventually landing behind a few trees and putting her broom away. She walked onto the pathway, deciding to keep her disillusionment applied, not knowing exactly how much Canada differed from it’s neighbouring country to the south on racial tensions, and not really being in the mood to find out, she began walking down the town’s main road, following her wand.

A streetlamp overhead turned on and so had a few lights over a few shops she saw, and curiously, she looked at her watch, amazed at how it was only four in the afternoon and yet, it the sky was already darkening (her portkey had left the ministry around eight in the evening).

Shaking her head, she continued along her way, thinking of what her options were when she met Niels and assessed the situation. Another of the venues she’s looked into over the passing months had been the process of recovering obliviated memories, and she found that though it was possible, the circumstances usually had to be just right to do so without causing further trauma to the mind. With how long ago Niels’s obliviation had taken place, Jas wasn’t sure she was entirely confident in attempting such a feat, so she’d tagged a healer who specialized in obliviation, who worked in the Janus Thickey ward, a healer by the name of Roisin Vane (who was the older sister to a girl Jas remembered as being a year younger than her, she believed her name was Romilda).

Of course, she hadn’t disclosed why she was interested in the topic because she wanted to ensure that Vane was trustworthy before breaching the subject of Niels. So far, that was her plan, because if she managed to recover Niels’s memory from before the obliviation, who knows what information she could potentially uncover, she could be the golden ticket to taking down this whole business, and Jas truly believed it was worth a shot.

Continuing her path, she weaved between and around walking muggles, coming soon to stand across the road from a brightly lit hotel named _The Prince of Wales_ (she snorted at that, as a Welsh witch herself and being from a family that could hardly give a fig about the muggle royal family, regardless that Kingsley was stationed with them), she rolled her eyes and took a left when her wand veered in that direction, taking her away from the main road and onto one of the residential streets.

Eventually, she stood in front of a large, old fashioned colonial-styled house, and carefully, she sidled up to the side, but before she could really get close, she felt the tingle of magic that stopped her. Frowning, she whispered a _revelio_ and tapped the air in front of her to momentarily illuminate a ward that encompassed the house.

Though this was strange, she hadn’t entirely ruled out the possibility of Aubrey rediscovering her magic over the years, simply because there was no evidence that her magic had been sealed, so she’d come prepared, and something about all of this just didn’t feel right.

Jas dug around in her pocket and pulled out a garish amulet that she’d bought at Borgin & Burkes a couple of days ago for this very trip (and she swears that she’s never felt greasier than the moment she’d walked out of that shop). It was a charmed piece of jewellery that made the wearer unnoticeable to most wards, though particularly powerful wards such as Hogwarts, the Ministry and standard blood wards were exempt, she hoped it would help get pass these ones here (obviously, it was intended for petty burglary, but Jas explained it away as research, and well, she hadn’t necessarily lied).

Placing the amulet over her head, she took a deep breath and stepped forward slowly, and when the ward didn’t activate or reject her, she carefully made her way to one of the lit windows to peer in. She needed to see what she was dealing with, if Niels was with anyone, and if she was, who were they?

For about an hour, she watched, making notes of who came in and out of the room, locating Niels early on as the only elderly who seemed to be in the house, and Jas confirmed this with a quick _hominum revelio_ , which told her there were only two individuals in the house. What was troubling, was regardless of where the caretaker seemed to be going, or what she seemed to be doing, Niels did not once move from her seat in front of the fireplace, she also seemed to be speaking, but the caretaker looked to be ignoring her.

Jas decided that she needed to get inside to really understand the situation, but as she was about to move from the window, something caught her eye, the caretaker pulled a wand from her sleeve, and standing a few feet behind Niels was seated, she took aim to the back of her head.

She acted before she could really process what was going on, silencing the area and whipping a _bombarda_ at the window, she launched herself through the hole created, and using the commotion she’d created, she disarmed the caretaker before hurling an _incarcerous_ at her. Through all of this, Niels hadn’t turned in her seat or even her head, continuously staring at the fire and muttering to herself. Jas carefully moved closer, leaning in to listen, while pocketing the other wand as the caretaker struggled on the ground, quiet, as she’d been silenced.

As she moved closer to Niels, she flicked her wand over her shoulder to repair the damage to the wall before listening to the words coming from the older witch’s mouth.

“…a pound of dragon liver…grind in streeler shells…” she muttered, and Jas reared back, alarmed more than confused. Niels was reciting the process to brew a doxycide potion, Hogwarts taught it for third year, was this a memory she’d lost seeping through? Her attempt to hold on to what she didn’t remember? Actual senility? She turned to the caretaker on the floor, who watched her with wariness, so Jas reached into her pocket and pulled out a vial of veritaserum, another thing she’d brought with no real intention to use, but figured it couldn’t hurt to have on hand and walked over to the caretaker, who was trying to shuffle her way backwards.

Kneeling in front of her, Jas observed her for a moment, she must have been in her early thirties, with straight blonde hair and blue eyes.

“Now, we can do this the easy way…” she trailed off, dangling the vial in front of the witch’s face, “…or the hard way,” she finished, twirling her wand between her fingers.

The caretaker’s eyes widened, and her mouth twisted into a sneer before nodding toward the veritaserum, tilting her head back and opening her mouth. Jas uncorked the potion and deposited the requisite three drops, waiting a moment for it to take effect.

“What is your name?” she asked, undoing the silencing spell and tucking the vial back into her pocket.

“Elena MacDougal,” she replied in an Americanized/Canadian accent. Jas hummed thoughtfully.

“Pureblood?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you have your wand pointed at Ms. Niels?” she asked, nodding her head in Aubrey’s direction, where she now seemed to be reciting the recipe for Skele-Gro.

“I am contracted to confound her every time she begins to remember magic,” she replied quickly, eyes wide that she was being forced to tell the truth.

“So, she’s actually remembering magic?” Jas began, “or she’s simply starting to, and by confounding her, you make her seem senile, is that right?” she finished, narrowing her eyes at MacDougal, who affirmed with a nod.

“How many of you are there? How many caretakers?”

“Just me, I live here and help care for her around the clock.”

“I’m guessing elderly abuse pays well, huh?” she asked, holding in a sneer.

“Yes, it pays a hundred galleons a month,” she answered, not being able to differentiate between rhetorical and deliberate questions.

“Who pays you? Who is your employer?” Jas asked, knowing somehow that she wasn’t going to get an answer and was right when MacDougal’s lips clamped shut and her pale face turned purple as the veritserum fought against what was clearly a vow.

“That’s fine, you don’t have to answer,” she amended before the witch passed out, clucking her tongue derisively, she needed to think of a new game plan. She glanced at her watch, her portkey would be leaving in another hour and clearly, she would not be able to bring Niels back with her, the portkey office being far too public and not really safe enough.

“How often do you update your employer?” she asked, the makings of a plan beginning to formulate in her mind.

“Once a month,” MacDougal replied before she could stop herself, and Jas nodded.

“And how long has it been since you last updated them?”

“Twelve days.”

Jas hummed appreciatively, a plan taking shape. That gave her just under seventeen days to act, rounding down to fifteen to be safe, to find a way to bring Aubrey back to the UK and completely out of the hands of whoever it was that had orchestrated all of this, without the knowledge of the ministry. For now, however, it was obvious that she would need to obliviate MacDougal, as well as erase all evidence of her presence here tonight.

She nodded, though she’d come here with the purpose of speaking to Niels, it was clear that it would have to wait, and anyhow, Hermione was away for the weekend in her home country, so she would have to update her when she saw her next. Once Aubrey Niels was safe, only then could she have a really clear image of what needed to be done, but as it stood, she’d learned a lot today.

Take the antidote out of her pocket, she nodded to MacDougal to tilt her head back and open her mouth, depositing it, and only then, she pointed her wand between the other witch’s eyes.

“Obliviate.”

Cimitière Sainte-Thérèse – Martinique – November 17th, 1947

Hermione sat cross-legged in front of her mother and father’s gravestone, manually polishing and wiping off any dirt and dust from in between the grooves of the engraved letters with a cloth, silent, while the sound of cicadas whirred in the early afternoon sun.

The sun beamed harshly down on her and she adjusted her large brimmed hat that sat snuggly on her coils; this was probably the first time that she’d come to visit them and hadn’t ended up a sobbing mess, though she was sombre all the same. It had been two years to this day since her mother’s murder, and not for the first time did she hope that Theodore Seaborn was burning in hell, but though her anger was justified, it did nothing from preventing the remembrance of that day from feeling like a punch to the chest.

Once the words were clean, she dropped the cloth to the ground in front of her, eyes tracing the letters of her parents’ names, feeling wholly lost without them, despite the years that had passed, mentally going over the current situation in her head.

Roughly a month had passed since that strange lucid dream she’d had on Samhain, that try as she may, she only remembered snippets of. She remembered that Tom had been in it, but for some reason that it hadn’t been her Tom, and that it had been a rehash of old memories while something inside of her was screaming to remember something important. It was as if she was on the precipice of discovering something magnanimous, and her only tip was that it had something to do with souls.

It read like some type of weird fever dream, and apart of her wanted to dismiss it as nothing more, but the cautious part of her insisted that she heeds that gut instinct and research what she could. She started by reading up on Divination and the study on dreams, something her inner thirteen-year-old was balking severely at, and she’d come to the conclusion rather quickly that (from what she’d read) dreams that wouldn’t fade from the subconscious within hours, likely meant that there was important information to be found from them, whether you knew it or not.

Therefore, as much as she chaffed at having to assign any credibility to divination, she placed her pride aside and took what she found in stride.

She found it strange, she never really remembered her dreams usually, unless they had to do with Tom, and only since she’d started wearing his ring, even then, it was usually an imprint of what the dream had been about (usually it was some degree of eroticism) but Samhain’s had struck out as different, and she cursed herself for not being able to remember the finer details.

She glanced towards where it lay, almost innocently, on her finger, its strange black stone glinting against the Caribbean sun. Since the Samhain, she’d begun to hold her occlumency shields consistently, even while conscious, and she surmised that she had likely discovered something in that dream that had made the subconscious decision a necessity. It was obvious that something was terribly wrong in her life, it felt as if there was this large cosmic joke that everyone was a part of but her, portraits in the castle whispered foul insults behind her back, when for years they’d otherwise had been silent of have hissed rudely, and it felt like Tom was the puppet-master holding all the strings, if the smug glint in his eye was of any indication.

She’d even made it a habit to visit the muggleborn children, and their eyes felt like accusatory signals to work harder and faster on her bill, but while she did, she was missing something significant that was happening.

It felt now that she had less control over anything than she had ever possibly held in her life, and it was really starting to chafe at her.

The previous week had been a hit on her sense of decency and faith in others because when she’d gone to visit Riddle Manor earlier in the week, she had found the first floor ransacked, with broken glass and sliced paintings. She’d had to alert the authorities, who theorized that disorderly teenagers were likely the cause, and with no leads on the perpetrators, would not push for an investigation. Frustrated, she’d left, but not before placing alarm wards around the parameter and fixing the damage, trying to make a note to the extent of it, only for when she told Tom, for him to reply that he’d take care of it, with no real sense of urgency, making her feel like she was overreacting to some infinitesimal problem.

Hermione brought a hand up and began to trace the ‘H’ of her mother’s name, wishing she were still with her so she could ask her advice.

“What would you do in my place, maman?” she asked idly before mentally snorting because she knew immediately that her mother would have never allowed someone like Tom to dictate even an iota of her life, regardless of the circumstances. A woman who shot three Gestapo officers point-blank after violating her and then proceeding to ferry them to Britain in the dead of night? No, her mother would have never, and she would have put Tom in the ground if he’d tried, probably would have actually had Seaborn not ripped her away.

Her maman’s death was at the hands of an obsessive madman in a gamble she’d played by taking Leo in and Hermione could only hope to become even a fraction of the incredible woman she’d been.

What was clear was that the onus was on her to do something about her life, she needed to act, possibly dramatically, she just didn’t know where to start. A part of her panicked at the idea of leaving Tom, constantly convincing herself that she was safer with him, especially after the Malfoy fiasco, the problem was his propensity for control. Could she leave? Her mind flashed to the two months of solitary confinement, which she still wasn’t entirely convinced was a dream, and she felt sick. What if she reasoned with him? She chafed at the very notion that she needed to, considering it was her life and not his. Would he even let her leave if she did try to reason with him? He was incredibly possessive and volatile when he didn’t have complete control, and furthermore, would leaving even give her the healing she was looking for? Well, she wouldn’t know unless she tried, right?

“How would you do it?” she asked, this time directing her eyes to her papa’s name.

Dr. Antoine Granger had been a pacifist above all of his other personality traits, and he had rarely sought confrontation, and usually was a gentle person overall, but if it came to something he believed in, he would do what was best for all parties involved, including himself, and perhaps it was high time for her to take a page out of his book.

She thought over a plan and nodded to herself, she’d start out small, just staying at the flat, and she’d write to Tom notifying him of her decision. Bringing her watch up and glancing at the time, she noted that her portkey would activate in another hour, so she stood up and dusted the back of her dress, kissing her fingers to place against the headstone one last time before apparating to the house so her portkey could activate in private, as well as having been there for three days, she wanted to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything.

When she got to her childhood home, she wandered her old bedroom, remembering her formative years having been some of the happiest in her life, where her papa would read to her, or where she’d leave her bed to climb into her mamie’s (when they had still shared a room), or when her maman would try to wrangle her hair into bows, only to fail. She wanted to be happy again, genuinely so, instead of merely existing, so with that, she felt emboldened in her plan to leave Slytherin castle.

Most importantly, she was excited that it was something she could feasibly do, as she had her Gringotts key on her (something she’d made sure to do, as an act of comfort, since she’d ‘woken up’), and that she already had adequate belongings at the flat, and her wand on her (she’d had to buy a new one back in August, where she’d also purchased a holster for her arm, to which she’d charmed so that her wand could only be removed by her).

Did she think Tom would accept her leaving, or that he wouldn’t be angry? Certainly, he might be angry, and probably wouldn’t even accept it, but if she acted in a way that gave him no choice or voice in the matter, then there wasn’t really anything he could do about it, especially because it was something she truly believed she needed to do for herself, so he would have to find a way to tolerate it.

Hermione then changed her robes quickly, stuffing her hat and dress back into her purse, before changing her sandals for boots and glancing at her watch. She counted the seconds down and braced herself as her portkey activated and minutes later, stood within the portkey office trying to regain her composure as she stood within the ministry, having cleared the arrival area.

“Miss Granger-Riddle?”

She looked up from straightening her robes to what looked to be an intern from the Auror department, probably within their first year of training and a recent graduate from Hogwarts if his patchy attempt at facial hair and his squirrely fidgeting was anything to go by. What confused her, however, was how they had known to find her here, at the portkey office, as portkey records were confidential, unless requested with a warrant.

“Yes? May I help you?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. The intern swallowed nervously before stretching an arm to guide her out of the office.

“Unfortunately, ma’am, I can’t say here, but I’ve been directed to escort you to the Auror department upon arrival in the Ministry,” he kept his tone low, and she would have argued with him but didn’t want to cause a scene, so she proceeded to lead the way to the lifts as he followed her.

She was stiff-shouldered and stone-faced as they dictated the floor to the operator and furthermore, as they stepped through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to Head Auror Rufus Scrimgeour’s office. Hermione tried to crane her neck slightly to see if she could spot Harry anywhere but was disappointed when she saw no trace of him, she shouldn’t have been surprised, it had been around four in the afternoon when her portkey activated in Martinique, so with the time difference, it was roughly nine in the evening currently, so he was probably at home with Ginny. She then thought of Ron too, who was no doubt tending to a very pregnant Géraldine, who was due near the end of December.

She snapped back to reality as she heard the office door close behind her, so she made to take her seat. The intern was gone and in the room was Scrimgeour, sitting at his desk, but what surprised her (and admittedly, calmed her) was Madam Amelia Bones standing to his right, and James Potter, Harry’s father, standing to his left.

“With all due respect, could someone explain to me why I was brought here?” she asked, confusion lacing her tone. The three looked at each other and Scrimgeour cleared his throat, before steeping his fingers together in front of him and Hermione noted that his beard and hair seemed to resemble a lion’s mane.

“Miss Granger-Riddle, we apologize for the late apprehension, but it is imperative to question you now on something that has come up recently. Tell me, when was the last time you saw Draco Malfoy?” he asked in a brisk tone, and Hermione blinked as if she’d been slapped.

“Not since June, if you remember, when I had been abducted and confined against my will at the Malfoy estate in Nice with thirty-five other muggleborn children,” she responded slowly, more confused than she’d been minutes ago, and then paused, “I-I’m sorry, am I being accused of something?” she asked, furrowing her eyebrows, eyes taking in each of their faces.

“You are here for questioning on the disappearance of Draco Malfoy from his home somewhere near the end of October.” it was Madam Bones who spoke up, tone neutral, but Hermione couldn’t help but gape at her incredulously, before sputtering in indignation.

“So, allow me to clarify, Draco Malfoy has somehow escaped his house arrest more than half a month ago, and I am only being notified about it now?” she asked, tone rising with her anxiety, and apparently it was the reaction they were looking for, as they had the grace to look contrite.

“Draco Malfoy, in his house arrest, should have had a probationary worker checking in once every three days, so that tells me that you had been aware of his disappearance for a minimum of fourteen days, and yet, not one Auror sought to notify me that the wizard, who, again, abducted and held me in a dungeon for five days, was somewhere out there?” she asked in a deadly calm, while Scrimgeour seemed to be analyzing her face and then it hit her. They thought something happened to him and that was a likely suspect, as she would have had a motive.

“You think I did something to him…” she trailed off and had never felt such a furious rage curl in her very bones, and Scrimgeour’s nod confirmed it. She scoffed, fighting the burning feeling behind her eyes at the indignity of the situation, she decided she would play their game because she had nothing to hide.

“Give me your veritaserum, I’ll swear on it now that I have had no involvement with your missing trafficker,” she snapped, ignoring the scrutinizing stare of Madam Bones, as James Potter came over to her, vial and dropper in hand with the clear veritaserum to the brim. He handed it to her with a sympathetic look that she also ignored, taking it from his hand and pinching the suction handle, she tilted her head back to clearly deposit the three drops into her mouth. Harry’s father nodded to Scrimgeour, likely confirming that he witnessed the appropriate application before Scrimgeour cleared his throat once more to begin speaking.

“What is your name?”

“Jeanne Hermione Granger-Riddle,” she answered swiftly, almost tonelessly.

“When was the last time you saw Draco Malfoy?” he continued.

“June eighteenth.”

“Did you have anything to do with Draco Malfoy’s disappearance?”

“No.”

Scrimgeour nodded and handed the antidote to James Potter, however, Madam Bones raised her hand in a pause motion.

“Miss Granger-Riddle, would you permit me to ask a question related to this case?” she asked calmly, and Hermione thought for a moment, she’d worded her question so that it would not trigger the veritaserum, asking instead for permission, rather than an answer.

She nodded, only really agreeing because Madam Bones had clarified that it was a related question.

“Though I understand that your previous tone before taking the veritaserum was made in frustration, you referred to Draco Malfoy as a trafficker, could you elaborate on your decision to refer to him as such?” she asked while Scrimgeour and Potter looked on, interested, which confused Hermione. Did they not know the reason she was abducted? Malfoy’s plans for her? When she had woken up, she’d been so disoriented that the trial was the last thing on her mind, and she’d never looked into the details, taking his light sentencing as mere pureblood privilege, but something didn’t sit right with her, so she articulated her answer as clearly as she could, guided by the potion.

“When I confronted Draco Malfoy that day in the Malfoy dungeons, where I had overpowered him, I had asked why he abducted me…he said that it had been in revenge for Lord Slytherin disfiguring him in a fair duel. I then asked what he had planned to do with me and he had answered that his plan had been to sell me, and furthermore, when I had asked him if the other cells were occupied, he had confirmed it. I then stunned him and gathered the children I’d found and then proceeded to send a patronous to Harry, your son,” she explained, nodding to James Potter, and taking a breath, she continued.

“Madam Bones, I referred to Draco Malfoy as a trafficker because he is one.”

In response, Bones cursed under her breath, before signalling for Harry’s father to administer the antidote.

“That is…very informative, Miss Granger-Riddle, for now, that will be all, you are free to go home, would you like an escort to the atrium floo network?” she asked as Hermione tipped her head back, depositing the antidote into her mouth. Feeling the potion gradually lose its effect, she declined and stood, exhaustion seeping into her very bones, before leaving without another word.

By the time she was standing in front of the floo in the atrium, powder trickling from her fingers, she second-guessed for a moment her decision not to go back to Tom. Surely, she would be safer with him if Malfoy and whatever associates he’s managed to gather in the time he’s escaped, were out there, right?

A large part of her didn’t want to give in, though. She was strong, she was intelligent and if she was careful, which she normally was these days, shouldn’t she be fine? Emboldened once more, she called for the flat as she threw the powder in, stepping through the flames and into the softly lit sitting room with plants everywhere, and Jas, who was reclining on the couch with a book, though she looked up at her as she entered.

“Hermione…? It’s late, did something happen?” she asked, slowly getting up and placing her book to the side on the table as she approached her, and Hermione didn’t know if it was the concern in her voice that broke her, but as the first tear escaped her eye, she found she had no control over the sobs that came forth and wracked her frame, igniting a heavy pain that settled in her head. She felt herself be guided to the loveseat, and Jas began rubbing gentles circles on her back, while Crookshanks then made her lap his seat, causing her to let out a wry chuckle in the midst of her gasps.

A little while later, when her sobs turned to small sniffles and she got a hold of herself, Jas handed her a dry handkerchief to replace her soaked one so that she could wipe the rest of her tears, as Crookshanks purred up a storm on her lap.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly, and it took Hermione another moment to regain a bit more of her composure before nodding. She told Jas everything, how she was feeling, her plan to stay away from Slytherin castle and her doubts, getting accosted at the ministry and the news that Draco Malfoy had escaped his house arrest, along with the odd questions that Madam Bones had asked. At that last part, Jas had a concerned expression and Hermione felt self-conscious that she may have said something odd, but her friend only paused before speaking carefully.

“Malfoy was given house arrest because he had admitted under veritaserum that he had known nothing of the other muggleborn children, or of the trafficking,” she responded slowly while Hermione gaped at her.

“What? …No, that can’t be right, he knew, he definitely knew,” she rambled, a theory slowly dawning on her, before she looked at Jas worriedly. It was right there, the whole time, and she’d missed it, how could she have possibly missed it?

“The days before the Malfoy trial, I went into a coma, or so Tom and my healer say…but my dream was that I was trapped in my room for two months, and I’ve felt since then that it couldn’t be true, as I remember eating, and I remember getting my monthlies…” she rambled, and at the look of dawning horror in her friend’s eyes, she almost regretted saying anything, waiting for Jas to invalidate her.

“…Two months and you remember details specifically?” she asked carefully, and Hermione nodded, flinching when Jas stood sharply, and with her wand, cut a small wound into her thumb as she reinforced the wards on the flat by tracing a series of bloodied runes along the frame of the door before healing herself and turning to her. If Hermione wasn’t in such a dazed state of mind, she would have been fascinated to pick her friend’s brain as to her methods, but she found she couldn’t find the words, so instead, she waited for Jas to speak.

“I believe you.”

Hermione gave a sharp intake of breath.

“…and you’re not going back there,” she spoke clearly, and Hermione felt she could faintly hear the ‘to him’ that hadn’t been said, “I’ve reinforced the wards, so he isn’t getting in,” she finished stiffly before grabbing her cup from the table and bringing it into the kitchen while Hermione watched numbly.

The fact that she really wasn’t going back was…exhilarating, to say the least, but more than that, she felt like she could cry again just because her friend believed her, on something she’d been trying to find proof of, for months, to validate her feelings of wrongness. Her emotions were all over the place, but she felt warm with vindication from the obvious support, getting up to follow Jas into the kitchen, where her friend was pulling down another mug from the cabinet.

“I have a peach camomile, I think you’d like it…” she rambled, long locs swaying around her hips as she reached above her head to shuffle around tins of tea, as Hermione watched her from her vantage point, leaning against the door frame, a wry smile on her lips.

“I think I would like that,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. She watched as Jas pointed her wand at the kettle, charming it to heat up, before turning to scoop tea leaves into a metal strainer that sat along the rim of her cup.

“There are a few things I wanted to catch you up on, but for now, that can wait,” she began, “on a lighter topic, I picked up Agatha Christie’s newest book, have you had a chance to read it yet? It’s called ‘ _The Labours of Hercules’_ ,” Jas continued, changing the topic, and Hermione shook her head, glad for the lighter conversation.

“I haven’t, Christie is an author I read with my mother a lot, I haven’t really been able to pick up any of her works since…” she trailed off as Jas turned to her, “…but I think I’d like to give it a go?” she asked, almost hesitantly.

Jas smiled softly and nodded, before changing the subject again.

“Honey?”

“Mm, a teaspoon, please.”

It was as she watched Jas unscrew the lid to the honey jar that she froze, a chill crawling up her spine. She saw that Jas stopped what she was doing, head snapping up and eyes narrowed in concentration. Tom was there, and she didn’t know where exactly, but from Jas’s borderline deadly expression, she knew it was somewhere in the vicinity, likely probing the wards. After a few tense minutes where Hermione wasn’t even sure if she’d been breathing, Jas went back to making her tea, lifting the strainer to pour the boiled water into the cup and scooping her teaspoon of honey in, mixing it before replacing the strainer with the tea leaves and allowing it to steep.

“Don’t worry, he isn’t getting in,” Jas calmly intoned as she turned to her, and Hermione clung to her words, glancing at the clock, noting that it was nearing midnight, surprising her that so much time had passed. So much had happened since her portkey arrived, and she remembered vaguely that she had originally planned to send Tom a letter to explain, but now she was unsure if she should.

Minutes passed with no change, and the clanking of a spoon drew her out of her mind, and her eyes away from the clock on the wall, as Jas removed placed the tea strainer onto a separate saucer, along with the spoon she’d just used to stir her tea once more before handing it to her. Hermione smiled, reaching to take it from her, when as her fingers brushed the ceramic of the handle, a pain, so sharp in her chest, seized her and sent her to her knees, knocking the cup from Jas’s hand.

Her friend’s cries of concern were drowned out as if she were hearing everything underwater as one hand clutched at her robes over her heart, letting out a wail at the stabbing agony she felt that was almost positive she was dying.

And in the next moment, it was over, and she continued to kneel there, her robes becoming soaked by the tea spilt and her knees burning from its temperature. Hermione struggled to catch her breath as Jas spelled the mess away with a flick of her wand, cleaning her robes as she helped her to her feet, but she wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

No.

All she could focus on was how the pain she had felt, had felt distinctly like rage, but even more worrying than that…was that it hadn’t felt like her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOw, I'm sorry
> 
> 🥴
> 
> In my defence I really tried to give ya'll a longer chapter, to make up for how long it took me to update. November...hasn't been good, a close friend of mine passed away at the beginning of the month and it kinda fucked with me because he was so young, and it was so sudden and it was already hard enough to find the motivation to work on this with school and work.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, I'll try not to let too long pass again before I update again, and as usual, I hope you are all staying safe and healthy.


	17. Chapter 16 - Pass the Gigglewater!

Apartment Complex B, Horizont Alley – November 17th, 1947

Tom stood there, probing at the wards, calculating series after series of complex equations in his mind and trying different patterns of wand movements to no avail, whatever Shacklebolt had done to them, he was not getting through and his earlier indignation quickly turned to fury. He had given Hermione a grace period, knowing that her portkey arrived at nine and had assumed that she’d be back by at least ten, and slowly, as eleven had come around and he was hit with a piercing headache, he decided it had been time to fetch her himself.

He would have retraced her steps but theorized that the headache he was experiencing was from her, and like he had done with Kaa the moment she had become a Horcrux, he pulled down his occlumency shields and reached for her distress, and as he surmised, her shields had been temporarily down, enough for him to catch a glimpse, through what seemed to be (unfamiliarly) tears, of Shacklebolt and that hideous yellow sitting room, to know exactly where she was.

Not wanting to abuse or tip-off Hermione to this little tool of his, he separated from her by replacing his shields and made to apparate outside of the flat, unfortunately, what seemed like moments after Shacklebolt changed the wards.

So caught up in his rage, he hadn’t noticed that his occlumency shields had slammed down until he heard a wail of pain from both inside his head and inside the flat, that sounded like Hermione. Cursing and refixing them, he gazed at the front door, tempted to toss a _bombarda_ at it, when he felt a prickling at the back of his neck. It was an unusual sensation, but a precise one at the same time, he knew that Abraxas was calling him through his mark, his specific mark having been adjusted to work despite his temporarily bound magic, so long as he pressed any magical object against it.

He gave one last glare at the door, loathed as he was to leave, he would have to deal with her behaviour after he found out what Abraxas wanted, and with that, he apparated once more to the grounds of Malfoy Manor and waltzed to the front door, deciding it was far more cleverer to arrive this way than through the floo, not while the Malfoy floos were tracked by the Ministry and seeing as it was midnight, that hardly translated as a friendly visit. The doors opened as he approached them, robes swaying as he walked towards where he knew Abraxas was, that being the main sitting room where he usually spent his days in a drunken stupor, at least since he’d killed his brother.

He entered the room, taking note of the soft glow from the hearth, which bounced off the obscene display of wealth, of the gold accents that were set in turquoise marble that made up the mantle and floors and of Abraxas who sat slumped in an expensive leather wingback chair, the mahogany side table to his right littered with both empty and half-filled bottles of wine. The wizard himself was wearing only a pair of silk pyjama bottoms and housecoat that hung loosely, displaying his pale chest, to where the fine silver hair upon it glinted from the firelight. His face was gaunt, unshaven and of an ashy tone, with pronounced circles under his eyes, his usual meticulous nails bitten down to the beds, and his hair ungroomed, laying limp and matted past his jaw.

Tom stopped at his side, idly dragging a finger up the other wizard’s arm, from his wrist to his collar bone, prompting Abraxas to turn his dull blue gaze to him, the cocky, handsome boy he once knew in school was almost nowhere to be found in this pale shadow.

“You called me?” he asked and Abraxas broke eye contact to lift a letter to him. Tom cocked his head, regarding the broken Ministry seal before he deftly took it in hand, opening it to give it a quick read, eyebrows raising at its contents.

“You did well to bring this to my attenti-“

“You knew.”

Tom paused, prompting his warn out knight to continue.

“You knew Draco’s full involvement, you doctored his memories like you did mine to save him from Azkaban, only so you could kill him.” there was no accusation in his tone, just the whisper of defeat lacing his words, so he answered honestly.

“Yes.”

The letter detailed that Abraxas would be visited tomorrow due to the discovery of new ‘evidence’ in regard to Draco’s culpability in June and Tom wondered how exactly they came about that information, as he was certain that he had tied all loose ends to that trial months ago. After bribing the guards, he had visited them again after the trial to erase the memory of his bribery from their minds, nobody else knew the level of Draco’s involvement, well, except…

‘Hermione,’ he mentally cursed, he had believed her to be well in hand, but clearly, he had been much too lenient with her, that would change when he brought her home.

He brought his gaze back to Abraxas, who watched him both warily and expectantly. He needed to ensure that whatever method was exacted upon him tomorrow, that his secrets were still safe, he had not come this far to be caught now, and it was clear that Abraxas may only have notified him due to the loyalty insurance buried within his mark. Tapping the letter against his other palm, he gave his knight a once over, an idea formulating in his mind’s eye.

“What will they say when they discover that you aided in your brother’s escape?” he asked idly, reaching out to gently cup his chin, tilting the other wizard’s face towards him, where he could see strong emotions flash across his eyes.

“I did it for you!” he sobbed, prompting Tom to coo comfortingly, kneeling down in front, and pulling him forward into an embrace, gently carding his fingers carefully through his slightly matted locks, as he rested his head on his shoulder.

“You did, and you did so well only to be dogged by this pain,” he spoke endearingly against his temple, rubbing gentle circles on his back as he cried.

“My brother is dead because of me, had I only reigned him in,” he cried, gripping at his robes, “this guilt is eating me alive that I can hardly sleep anymore, and when I do all I see is his accusing face. I don’t want to feel like this anymore, please!” Abraxas ranted into his shoulder in hysterics while Tom kissed his temple in a mock attempt to soothe him.

“I can make you whole again, all you have to do, Abraxas, is ask,” he spoke gently, separating him from his shoulder to cup his face. Upon viewing his knight’s tear-streaked face and red-ringed eyes, Tom noted once more that, quite like when Helen was murdered, he curiously felt nothing in the face of such utter despair.

“All of this guilt, all of this misery, it can all go away,” Tom murmured, pressing his lips against his brow, answered with a hitch of breath.

“Prends-le, s’il te plait.”

Salazar’s Sanctuary – November 18th, 1947

Géraldine stood in front of the muggleborn refuge, it was a large, sprawling manse that had clearly once been an awfully expensive muggle residence, if the long driveway was any indicator, before being repurposed as a sanctuary. It had taken her all morning to get here, being so close to the end of her pregnancy made both floo travel and apparition strictly discouraged due to the physical stress it put upon the body; so, she had taken the train from London to Brighton, and from the station, a taxi to the front gates of the home, where the wards started.

She smoothed her hands over her belly, an anxious habit she’d developed in the latest few months since she’d really begun to show, her anxiety stemming from the reality that within those doors, her sister Émilie was waiting.

Two days ago, she had received a letter from her boss, the head of the Improper Use of Magic Office, Mafalda Hopkirk, due to starting her maternity leave earlier that month from being unable to use the floo anymore, on healer’s orders. The letter had informed her that one of the muggleborn children, a girl who had originally been called Annie by the staff and other children due to her refusal to speak, had come to say words for the first time since her retrieval in June, naming herself as Émelie Dubois.

Ron, of course, had offered to come with her but she had insisted that he wait at home for her floo call because her sister had clearly been through a traumatic experience and she didn’t want to crowd her. Émelie had only been three years old in 1941 when she’d been separated from the rest of her family, she had no idea what to expect, no idea what she remembered, and furthermore, what she had experienced in the last eight years, hence the anxiety.

Géraldine took a deep breath and renewed the cushioning charm on her shoes, already feeling tired and her ankles swell, she had worries not only of how the meeting would go, but what came after, this was two siblings found out of four, and with the baby on the way, the flat was bound to be tight, that is, if Émelie consented to join them, she wouldn’t get her hopes up until she did. The reality that her youngest sister had been a victim of trafficking made her feel physically sick, and though she was so painfully aware of the unfair discrimination of nouveau-sang in the UK, with this knowledge, she found herself wishing that her other two sisters did not have magic, because knowing now how deep the mistreatment went, horrified her.

With one more deep breath, she walked towards the giant ornate doors and knocked, hearing her wraps against the door echo, she wondered if anyone would even hear it, with how large the estate was. Her worries were baseless as the door opened a few moments later and a stern-faced matron appeared, her grey hair in a severe bun and eyes that were chipped like ice, so familiar to Professor Burke at Hogwarts that she briefly considered if they might be related. The other witch quirked an eyebrow and gave her a once over, pausing briefly at her belly.

“Mrs. Weasley, isn’t it? Madam Hopkirk said she’d contacted you and that you’d be visiting today, but goodness, I hadn’t any idea you were with child…and you walked that entire path?” she asked, tsking while ushering her in.

“Oh, pardon me, madam, but I go by Dubois-Weasley, because of my siblings that I am trying to find,” she explained, not missing the flash of distaste across the Matron’s face, but refrained from rolling her eyes.

She constantly got flack at work and in public for choosing to hyphenate, but the worst of it was that she knew Ron had also been slightly disappointed, though he tried not to show her, trying to be supportive of her decisions. He couldn’t help it and she understood why, he was so very sweet and accommodating, but his insecurities still sometimes got the better of him, and with how their marriage came to be, she knew he had doubts that she’d want to stay with him. Though it was true that the beginning of their union hadn’t been as genuine as the average couples’, but that didn’t take away how she felt about him now and her reasonings for keeping her name were genuine.

She decided not to address the blatant disrespect, she knew her worth and to her, her name had worth, even if no one here thought so, instead, she decided to change the subject.

“Am I correct in assuming that you are Madam Carrow?” she asked, following her through the foyer, and at her brief nod, Géraldine continued.

“Is there anything about Émelie that you can tell me before I see her? How she is, perhaps?” she asked, refraining from running her hands over her belly anxiously once more. Madam Hopkirk had only informed her in her letter that her sister spoke, after spending months refusing to and it felt like she was going into a room of glass objects blindfolded. From her side profile, she could swear that Carrow’s face softened a bit, and she wondered what brought the clearly pureblooded witch to become a matron of a refuge for muggleborns.

“Even after speaking, Ann- ah – Émelie, is quiet, polite and she generally keeps to herself, she has been apprised of your arrival, so she knows you are here. If you wish to receive her into your home and she agrees, she may, but if you are unable…” she paused, once more looking at her belly, “or if she does not agree, she will stay here,” she finished, and Géraldine tried not to bristle at the implication that she’d be unable to care for her sister but knew the matron was not wrong.

She didn’t know what treatment or attention her sister needed, and she had Jean-Pierre at home, the baby on the way, that she felt a string of anxiety of being in over her head. What if she couldn’t provide for them all? Her job paid decently, and she’d saved up a generous amount since working, Ron had finished his two-year apprenticeship, so he was on full salary now as an investigator, but from Ron especially, she knew that finance was not the only concern with multiple children, but attention and care as well, and she was worried that she’d fall short.

Her thought abruptly halted as she was led into a sitting room, and to a seat on the couch where an elf that was dressed in robes, asked if she’d like some tea, to which she declined, too nervous to drink anything. A few moments later, Carrow returned and this time with a small girl by her side, a bit smaller than her age belayed, as she should almost be ten now, in the coming February to be precise.

She greedily took her in, her short-cropped brown curls, so much like their older brother’s and her hazel eyes, like their mother’s, while Géraldine and the rest of their siblings had their father’s dark brown. Unlike their mother’s pale complexion, she had their father’s olive tone, with a smattering of dark freckles over her nose. Émelie was eyeing her warily too, and so she stood up to greet her, hand on her belly as she used the armrest to pull herself up.

“Bonjour…je ne sais pas de quoi tu te souviens…mais je suis ta sœur,” she began hesitantly, watching Émelie’s face pinch in apprehension, and furthermore, as she left Carrow’s side and approached her, stopping a few feet in front of her.

“Je m’apelle Géraldine Dubois-Weasley, comment allez-vous?” she asked as she held out her hand gently in greeting, nervous when her sister looked at it warily before lightly grasping it. Géraldine smiled encouragingly and let go, motioning to the seat beside where she had been sitting.

Everything was going well until Géraldine put her hand lightly against her upper back and Émelie snapped, pulling away and swinging herself around with a look of wild panic in her eyes. Quickly, she raised her hands in defence, stuttering a quick apology and waiting for her sister to take her seat before she retook her own.

Despite Émelie speaking a few days ago, as Carrow said, her sister was quiet, so instead of asking questions that could retraumatize her, Géraldine spoke for the next hour of their family, of their parents, their older brother, their sisters, to finally Jean-Pierre, how he was turning seven in just a few weeks and how he had magic too. At the mention of their younger brother, something sparked in her sister’s eyes, something that she hoped was recollection. She pulled out the photos from her purse that she managed to salvage that first time she went back to her family’s townhouse in Lyon, pointing out who was who to her sister’s curious expression, and though it was apparent that Émelie would not be coming home with her that day, Géraldine felt that it was a start.

At the end of the visit, when her sister was rubbing her eyes tiredly, she used the fireplace in that sitting room to floo call Ron, where he came through holding his broom to fly them home as Émelie was being escorted out.

It was as they were passing over cities and towns through the clouds, that the reality of what had happened hit her fully, and she could not stamp down the anger and indignation even if she tried. Recalling the look of wild panic in Émelie’s eyes at being touched, she bit her cheek and squeezed her arms tighter around Ron, prompting him to look back over his shoulder at her in concern.

Internally, she resolved herself to speak to Hermione when she saw her next, get her advice on what she could do in this situation. She was broken out of her thoughts at the sound of Ron speaking.

“Everything alright?” his tone endearingly supportive, and it broke her heart that this time she couldn’t play along to his comfort, there was a fire in her heart, and she didn’t think anything could extinguish it now.

“No. No, it is not.”

Potter Manor – November 22nd, 1947

Ginny watched as Harry’s sister Maya was led from the table by her mother, it had been a long day for her, being her ninth birthday and all, they were all gathered around in the dining room, just family left now, and though she thought she put on a good show of being present, her mind kept travelling back to what she had learned recently, a family secret so horrible, it turned her stomach. She looked around the table, counting Harry’s grandparents, his parents and uncles, or ‘The Marauders’ as they’ve called themselves since school days, Sirius and Remus Lupin-Black, and Peter Pettigrew, she rolled her eyes at the fact that they mischievously kept their group name and code names to this day.

“Oi! Wormtail, pass the gigglewater, need something to wash down the cake!” Sirius chimes, prompting the lanky blonde wizard to launch/slide the bottle to his hand. She snorted at Sirius’s answering ‘yeow!’ as he caught it and spun it in his hand before popping the cork. Harry then distracted her by grasping her hand, drawing her attention to him.

“You okay? You’ve been looking out of sorts all day,” he asked, concern lacing his tone, his question gaining the attention of everyone at the table, causing her cheeks to heat.

“I-it’s nothing, really, just discovered some disturbing news from Bill yesterday, me and Ron went to go visit him in Hogsmead,” she quickly explained, wincing once more at what was discovered.

At the end of October, Bill explained that he’d caught Leo trying to steal a strand of his hair, he explained how he’d confronted the teenager, who eventually caved and explained the ‘project’ he was researching, which had been in-depth detail of muggleborns and their lives through the centuries and how pureblood supremacy affected their lives, certainly a heavy topic for one so young.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry asked, dark brows furrowed under his bird’s nest of curls, and Ginny bit her lip.

“I’m not certain I should…it’s a very delicate situation,” she began, but Sirius scoffed.

“Nonsense, everyone here is family and would never do anything to betray your trust, Red,” he reasoned, and she figured he was right, so she began to explain Leo’s project, and most importantly what was discovered.

“Bill brewed the lineage potion himself, which roughly took a month and found out that Leo was right in his theory, and that the parents of our grandfather, Septimus, and Uncle Ignatius were not Bilius and Margaret, but Bilius’s sister Agnes, who was fifteen and a wizard named Norbert G. Leach,” she paused, and Sirius began muttering.

“Norbert G. Leach…I’ve heard that name before, Moony, where have I heard that name before?” he rambled and asked, turning to his husband, but before Remus could answer, Lily did, walking back into the room.

“Norbert G. Leach was the Minister for Magic from 1863-1868 when he went missing, he was the first and only muggleborn Minister the UK has ever had, we knew him as Nobby Leach,” she explained calmly, retaking her seat next to Harry’s father.

“Nobby Leach! That’s right! Wait, if he disappeared, how is he having children with a fifteen-year-old?” he asked, and Ginny bit her lip.

“That’s where it gets worse, Bill went to our Uncle Ignatius and asked him directly, and all he did was deny it, but in his home, the Weasley ancestral seat that we’ve never been allowed near because of him, as Bill tells it, were receipts everywhere of vast galleon transfers to the Lestranges through Gringotts, some with dates going as far back as the 1890s!” she exclaimed, using her hands to exaggerate her point.

“Galleons we never knew the Weasley name even had! We all grew up in poverty, with mum and dad stretching every sickle and knut as far as possible while our uncle was sending these outrageous amounts to another family!” she snapped, and immediately took a deep breath to calm down as Harry rubbed her back. He knew much of her family’s financial situation had affected them growing up, how it had hurt to see her mother bend over backwards with no help to raise them all, and never once complaining, or how her father was ridiculed by every single magical family, even though he provided for all of them on a single salary.

He knew that it had always affected her as much as Ron, though she had always hid it better than her brother, it just upset her that some long time secret was the only reason her father had never had access to the family vaults, having been cut off by his uncle at fifteen when her grandfather, Septimus, died and was the only reason for the hardship and ridicule her family had faced for decades, being labelled as ‘pureblood farmers’ amongst the elite.

“That’s…a lot to unpack,” Sirius interjected, whistling in awe, but looking at him, his expression was… quite, well…serious, as well as everyone else’s around the table.

“Minister Nobby Leach disappeared in 1868, but your grandfather was born in 1869,” Harry’s grandfather, Monty, began, steeping his fingers together.

“I know this because he and Ignatius were a year ahead of me at Hogwarts, and considering the payments to the Lestrange family, with their stranglehold on the prostitution industry, I cannot say confidently that the origins of your grandfather and his brother are genuine, especially not considering that Agnes Weasley was said to be a squib, and if I remember correctly, of questionable mental faculties,” he finished, his tone grave, and simultaneously as her breath hitched, her stomach dropped at the implications, she hadn’t considered that her grandfather might have been the product of rape, and it horrified her even more now.

“That is certainly a devious plot, Ginny, has your brother brought this to your father yet? I doubt Arthur would be too pleased to find out this truth,” Remus chimed in calmly, and Ginny had shaken her head.

“Not yet, Bill is unsure of how to broach the topic with him, but I think he is going to soon,” she explained wearily, she worried for her parents in discovering this truth, they were such good people that she felt they didn’t deserve this type of deviousness. Not to mention, her da could be overreactive sometimes if he felt he’d been wronged, like the time he punched Lucius Malfoy in the face at Flourish & Blotts the summer before she started her first year.

“All the same dear, it’s best he knows, and if he manages to work with Ignatius, they might even have a legal case in their favour,” Harry’s grandmother intoned gently and suddenly she felt regretful for even sharing, this was so much larger than she originally thought. Ginny turned to Harry and he squeezed her hand in his, bringing it to his lips to kiss her freckled knuckles.

“Whatever happens, Gin, I’m here for you,” he promised against her hand, and she couldn’t help but smile, putting on airs to make him feel better, while on the inside, she was more troubled now than she’d ever had been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I officially have a month off! My semester is DOOOONE 🙏🙏🙏
> 
> I'm gonna see how much I can write in this little break I have :D I am excited.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy the new chapter, and hope you're all staying safe and healthy! 
> 
> (✨ I'm stuck self-isolating in my room for 5 days waiting for my covid test results, because ✌️ Starbucks ✌️ customers ✌️ don't ✌️ like ✌️ wearing ✌️ MASKS ✌️ ✨ )


	18. Chapter 17 - Deal

Chapter 17 – Weasley Estate – November 25th, 1947

Albus eyed the room as he exited the floo, it was a grand gentleman’s study that once might have been considered a stylish display of wealth and elegance, but today, under the sole occupancy of one Ignatius Weasley, it was a shadow of its former glory. The curtains, which he assumed to have once been a brilliant shade of Gryffindor red, were now a muddled maroon and infested with doxies, as well, much as Bill Weasley had detailed to him, the desk and much of the floor was littered with parchment of varying ages.

To say that he was surprised when his Ancient Runes professor told him of the research of one Leonard Riddle, and the subsequent discovery from said research would be an understatement. He had decided early last year from watching the boy in class that he was likely innocent to any of Tom’s machinations – not that he could do much about it anyhow, the deal he had struck with his former student, which had become key to his winning of the Chief Warlock position, tied his hands – however, he also hadn’t expected the boy to take such a focused interest in what was, essentially, the opposite of Slytherin values, at least, not while he carried the Riddle name.

Albus trained his eye to the seat at the desk, to where Ignatius sat, observing him with a wary gaze.

“Chief Warlock, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, gesturing to the empty seat adjacent from him, his hand (and the rest of him) looking far older than his seventy-nine years belayed, his previously ginger hair was a shocking white, and cataracts were developing in his blue eyes.

“I think you know, Lord Weasley,” he replied affably, taking his seat. He did not want to come off too offensively, after all, this could be the in he was searching for, the foolproof evidence to the belly of Lestrange’s crimes against humanity. If he could get Ignatius Weasley’s cooperation, to willingly stand out as a witness, he could devastate Lestrange’s empire domestically, and hopefully, with time, internationally by bringing it to the ICW as a landmass representative.

“If you’re here for what that William brat’s fictional delusion, then I want no part!” he rasped, slamming his hand down upon what seemed to be the only part of the desk that wasn’t covered in parchment. Albus frowned, taking note that many of the parchments were, in fact, Gringotts receipts.

“You do understand of what can be achieved if we bring justice to this long-standing violation, do you not?” he asked amiably, it took more than that to cow him nowadays, “I can see that the life you have lived has not been kind to you, it’s always been a shame to see the Weasley name brought so low, but you – Ignatius – have a chance to help make it right,” he continued, gently imploring him.

Albus knew it was all a cover because, despite his cruel actions against Arthur, he had seen glimpses of the true character that Ignatius had kept close to his chest. That he was a staunch member of the Progressive Party, voting in favour of progressive ideals, even debating in their favour some days, while other times completely flipping back to a traditionalist agenda, and it had only taken until Bill’s testimony to understand that Lestrange had been behind the curtain, pulling the strings behind the wizard, the whole time.

“Bill, your nephew, has brewed the lineage potion and has discovered the secret that you have been forced to hide, all we need is your cooperation and this could all end,” he continued, making the effort to endear the other wizard into listening to him.

“You do not know what it has been like,” Ignatius sighed wearily, rubbing his face with his hand, an action that radiated a type of exhaustion of which Albus was all too familiar with, what with the past war having aged him an extra twenty years than his age, or so it felt.

“My father entered the horrific deal with the benefactor at the pressure of being unable to produce an heir for years, but when he found out that it was he, and not my mother, who was impotent, he had offered up Agnes, his younger sister, to obtain that heir,” he spoke slowly, as if the mere reality of these words leaving his mouth would gather a force that would strike him where he sat.

“Agnes was…as my father told it, special, in that she was mute and a squib, who could not function without assistance, but desperate as he was for an heir, he sacrificed her all the same.” Albus felt as if a hand was squeezing his heart, the thought of forcing sweet Ariana to do something so vile, made his very skin crawl. He could not even fathom such callous disregard, not at the height of his foolishness would he have dared, and the fact that Bilius Weasley _had,_ disgusted him.

“The pregnancy was a hard one, and though myself and my brother were born healthy, it culminated in Agnes’s death…my father blamed himself, as he should have, but because of it, he refused to complete the blood adoption ritual that would have erased her from our veins, instead, striking a deal to pay a certain amount of money to the benefactor to keep the secret, taking a vow of secrecy that died with him ten years later,” he paused, taking a breath.

“I only know any of this because my mother wrote it in a letter before she vowed to keep the secret, a letter that became available to me at Gringotts once she passed, ten years after my father’s death.” his tone was weary, and eyes so very tired.

“Why do you continue to pay?” Albus asked, knowing he would not like the answer.

“After my mother’s death, my brother Septimus – as the older twin – was visited by the benefactor to continue paying their debts, and though he was horrified, he had already been married to Cedrella Black by that time with his son, Arthur, on the way, and not wanting trouble, he continued to pay…” he paused, rubbing at his eyes, to which Albus just noticed that he seemed to be crying, “…but he put his foot down, years later, when Arthur was set to take his OWLs in Hogwarts and his daughter, Ginevra, who was set to start her first year because the galleons were depleting fast, and our wealth, that which has accumulated for centuries due to the contributions of our ancestors, was dwindling to nothing in front of our very eyes because of this debt, and so, he stopped the payments.” He paused again, taking a deep breath.

“Septimus and Ginevra Weasley were killed in broad daylight in 1905, while in Diagon Alley purchasing her school trunk for her first year, Cedrella and Arthur had been a few shops down at the Magical Menagerie searching for a surprise familiar for the girl, their murderer had gotten away and hadn’t been found…And I had immediately been tagged by the benefactor not days after the funeral, so I took over the account and continued the payments, locking Cedrella and Arthur from the vaults to prevent them from being targeted,” he paused again, pulling a handkerchief out of his pockets to wipe at his face and blow his nose, before charming it clean and tucking it back away.

“The Weasley name is in shambles, and I am so very tired, I give you permission to do what you will with this information,” he finished, while Albus looked once more at the receipts. Of course, they did not print the name of the beneficiary, but the receiving account was clearly Vault 713, which had been easily recognizable to Bill Weasley as being the Lestrange vault, being the formerly employed Cursebreaker for Gringotts that he’d been. An idea then formed in his mind, if he could have some kind of connection between this story and the receipts, enough to implicate Lestrange, he may be able to build a case on the memory of this conversation. He then straightened in his seat, crossing one leg over the other while straightening his robes to fall neatly.

“I apologize for the losses you have sustained through this injustice, my friend, are you able to name the benefactor to which you referred to in your telling?” he asked, already knowing it was unlikely that Ignatius would be able to name them directly, and he was correct when the wizard across from his shook his head.

“No, I am not able to,” he replied evenly, to which Albus reached and gently picked up one of the parchment receipts closest to him, he then fixed his new half-moon spectacles on his nose, pretending to read the slip carefully.

“Are you able to confirm that you make regular payments to Vault 713 in your parents’ place towards their debt to the aforementioned benefactor?” he then asked, flicking his gaze back up across the desk, to where Ignatius now held a sly glint in his eye.

“Yes, I can confirm that,” he responded, nodding and sitting straighter in his chair.

“Do you know who the owner of Vault 713 is?” he then asked, almost innocently, while the other wizard’s lip twitched mirthfully.

“Yes, I do.” Albus then replaced the receipt back upon the desk before folding his fingers together over his knee.

“Does Vault 713 belong to the Lestrange family?”

“Yes, it does.”

Manse Lestrange, Somerset – November 25th, 1947

Ramsey stepped out of the floo, waving his wand to remove the ashes from his shoulders with a sneer upon his lips. He had just come from the Ministry, having got a note from an informant yesterday, which had prompted him to portkey in from France, where he spent the majority of his time.

As he made his way to the office he kept, he considered everything that was happening. Since the Malfoy trials, he had been watching his moves carefully, in fact, he hadn’t arranged for a single auction, as well, he had temporarily closed select brothels that were intertwined with them, a smart decision considering the few that were still open had been tagged ruthlessly by investigators in both the UK and France since June, which had also increased exponentially in the last month.

It hadn’t shocked him to discover the reason for this, he had heard recently through one of his informants within the British Department of Magical Law Enforcement, that Draco Malfoy had ‘escaped’ his house arrest, prompting Madam Bones to viciously insert herself into the hunt. If he was being frank, a small part of him was almost impressed with the Slytherin brat’s patience, for he had no doubt in his mind that he had been the one responsible and that there was absolutely no likelihood that the Malfoy scion was still alive.

He ran a hand through his hair as he entered his office, calling for an elf to bring him tea, as he hung floated his travelling cloak over to the hanger and took a seat at the desk. Within minutes, tea was served, and he was sipping casually as his cup while sorting through his letters that had been sent to this address, instead of the Chateau in France. It was once his tea was near the bottom of his cup that an elf appeared, he darted his gaze to the clock, noting that it was two in the afternoon, meaning his informant was right on time.

“Mister Pettigrew has arrived, sir,” the elf, Echo, declared, prompting Ramsey to no and order the other wizard to be brought to him. He had finagled a hold over Pettigrew years ago when there had been a rumour of James Potter taking over the position of Head Auror when Scrimgeour moved on from the role. The wizard had mediocre school records, but despite that, he held a mastery in Transfiguration, having opened his own shop sometime in the thirties, it had done reasonably well, however, Pettigrew had unfortunately hit a rough patch during the muggle war when his mother passed, causing the wizard to fall face-first into gambling addiction.

In his efforts to save his shop from foreclosure, Ramsey had stepped in, knowing an opportunity when he saw one (also having done his research and having decided that no other wizards that surrounded Potter would be nearly so simple to crowd into debt) and offered him a bailout, and in return, Pettigrew would play informant when relevant information to his ventures made themselves known, hence the letter and visit today. As Pettigrew entered his office, Ramsey raised a hand, gesturing for the other wizard to take the seat across from him.

“So? What news are you bringing me today?” he asked, assuming it had to do with the Malfoy blunder, however, upon the nervous look on Pettigrew’s face, he felt a wary curiosity rise.

“Ginevra Potter was made aware of a business venture of your family’s involving her great-grandfather, Bilius Weasley,” he started, and for a moment, Ramsey felt his heart freeze, and quickly he slammed up his occlumency shields to get a hold of himself.

“Who else knows and how did she find this information?” he asked, knowing it had always been a risk of his father’s, to keep Weasley as an open account, but with how easily attainable lineage information was for pureblood families, with an actual lineage potion rarely being needed (especially considering its expensive ingredients) he hadn’t been too worried of discovery and had continued with the account without much fanfare. He had believed that the debt and the vow to be sufficient in protecting the Lestrange name, for years, and it had been for seventy-nine of them. He remembered the account well, Bilius Weasley, so distraught at the death of his sister via childbirth, refused to perform the blood adoption on the infants to erase the muggleborn surrogate, that being former Minister Nobby Leach, who’d been apprehended and imperiused to complete the contracts before being disposed of.

He remembered his father’s utter hatred for the muggleborn Minister, having been Minister himself during the years of 1835-1841, so much so, that his main concern had been ensuring Leach’s suffering, rather than ensuring their family’s prosperity. That was until Septimus Weasley ceased payments, by which at that time, he had taken charge as head of the family – and having more nerve than his father – he nipped the issue in the bud with a quick assassination of the wizard and his young daughter, at least, to drive the point home to Ignatius Weasley, the successor of the account.

“Well, Ginny…” Ramsey raised an eyebrow at the familiarity, causing Pettigrew to stutter, “…right, she said it had all come out with a Hogwarts student’s research, a boy named Leo…? He was caught by Bill Weasley, who teaches years five to seven in Ancient Runes, and she then recounted this at the same dinner I was at with James, Remus, Sirius, Lily, Harry and James’s parents Fleamont and Euphemia Potter,” he quickly rambled, shooting off names as if he weren’t ensuring their future demise, while Ramsey could feel his own rising rage.

This was bad, and he would need to initiate immediate damage control, but something caught his attention.

“Would this Leo student happen to be Leonard Riddle, Lord Slytherin’s ward?” he asked with a merciless calm, and at Pettigrew’s nod and stuttering affirmations, he cursed.

‘Slytherin again, that fucking glorified worm,’ he thought disdainfully, before addressing Pettigrew once more.

“Once more, anything spoken in this office is not to be repeated, are we clear?” he snarled, waving his hand in dismissal, to which Pettigrew did not question as he stuttered out his promises before scampering out like the rat he was.

As soon as he was gone, he took a few deep breaths before calling for an elf, standing u[ and shakily pouring himself a finger of firewhiskey from his cart, his hand was shaking as he brought the tumbler to his lips.

“Yes, sir?” asked the elf that appeared, he didn’t know the name of this one, they all bred like kneazles anyhow.

“Bring me Antonin Dolohov now, you have one hour,” he ordered in between sips while attempting to get a hold of his anger, barely registering the squeak the elf let out and pop as it apparated away. One thing was clear, if he didn’t act fast, then everything he had worked towards would be at stake, not to mention the nice bare cell in Azkaban with his name on it, but more than anything, he needed to cripple Slytherin in a way that he would not recover from. First and foremost, he needed to see to Ignatius, he was well past his useful expiry in any case, afterwards, he would see to the Riddle brat that brought all of this on, and lastly, perhaps Rodolphous would have Slytherin’s mudblood whore after all, not that he might need her, as Bella was pregnant and in actual decent health, being three months along that she was.

As he was ruminating, the elf popped back in, grasping the wrist of one Antonin Dolohov, the Russian pureblood that had been expelled from Koldovstorez in his third year for recklessly endangering another student, prompting his powerful family to send him to the UK, to an aunt that lived in London, transferring him to Hogwarts within the same year. It was clear, that for all of his stellar marks and talent, that he was still led by his impulsivity, having dismissed from his cursebreaker apprenticeship with Gringotts for petty theft. That was how Ramsey discovered the young wizard, lethal and an apt wand that he was, who asked little questions; he began to employ him for odd jobs, usually of the illegal variety, paying him handsomely for the trouble, which Dolohov hardly seemed to mind.

“With all due respect, you could have sent an owl,” the young wizard chirped, accent pronounced as he pried his wrist from the elf’s grip.

“I apologize for the sudden summons; however, I have a few tasks for you and quite the reward if you complete them promptly,” he told him, retaking his seat, and by the interested expression upon Dolohov’s face, he took a sip of his drink, waiting for him to bite.

“Consider me interested, who is my target?” he asked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robes and tilting his chin upward in interest.

“Targets,” he clarified, watching him carefully, “your discretion will be non-negotiable on this one, meaning you will tell no one,” he stressed, knowing full well that Dolohov was a part of Slytherin’s cohort, and as he expected, the young wizard narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“Who?”

“You are to dispose of Ignatius Weasley immediately,” he began, before pulling open the drawer to his left and pulling a single chain out of many, they were premade portkeys to the chateau in France, the glint in Dolohov’s eyes belayed that he might have recognized it, but he said nothing. After all, how could he? They were transport portkeys for apprehended mudbloods.

“Secondly, I want you to bring to me Leonard Riddle,” he finished as Dolohov’s eyes widened almost comically.

“That is a tall order, and a dangerous one at that,” he started, his tone cautious, “what are you willing to pay for him?” he asked idly, scratching his chin in consideration.

“Double the usual amount?” he offered, raising an eyebrow, placing his elbows upon the desk and lacing his fingers together. He was willing to negotiate…to a certain point.

“I am not hurting for galleons enough to go behind Tom’s back in any fashion, I have more self-preservation than that,” he retorted, a glint in his eye that whispered of having something in mind.

“Name your price,” he answered smoothly, frowning when a smirk twitched at the corner of the younger wizard’s lips.

“Leta Lestrange.”

Ramsey blinked; this boy wanted Leta? He almost barked a laugh, he would have a corpse if he tried to sell her out like that, but then again…that was a deal if he ever heard one. He had been meaning to find some usefulness for her, and what better than to save his life’s work? She had been too quiet lately, anyhow, and despite their almost thirty-year age difference, if Dolohov wanted the opportunity, however, doomed that it was, then he was happy to oblige him.

“May I ask why? She is thirty years your senior, should you not aim for a witch your own age?” he asked casually, mind whirring for how else he could make this work in his favour, thinking of the mudblood again, as Dolohov answered.

“She has much experience and death under her wand, and I do not want a sacrificial lamb,” he shrugged, speaking confidently, “and I have no need for a blushing virgin either,” he finished, and Ramsey considered it for a moment.

“For fifty thousand galleons and the hand of Leta Lestrange, you will kill Ignatius Weasley, and bring me both Leonard Riddle and Hermione Granger-Riddle or is that too much for your skillset?” he goaded, bartering for Slytherin’s mudblood, watching the smirk widen on Dolohov’s face.

“Deal.”

Javehri & Potter Firm – December 5th, 1947

Hermione glanced at the clock, noting that she had another half-hour before her next client, and reaching towards the left corner of her desk, she picked up her planner and went over what else needed to be done for the day. Feeling like she was forgetting something, she turned around and stood up, walking to her calendar that hung beside the window, she absentmindedly rubbed her chest under her collar because it always seemed to ache, while scouring the days and cursing when she saw that today was Jean-Pierre’s seventh birthday, realizing that it was what she’d forgotten.

She had, in fact, agreed to go to dinner at Ron and Géraldine’s, but had forgotten to write it into her planner, busy as she’d been the last few weeks. Being away from the castle had taken a bit of adjusting, but more importantly than that, she and Jas had managed to retrieve Aubrey Niels from Canada two weeks ago, she was now staying back in Dublin with her family, who had been apprised of the situation, and their home was under intense wards that both she and Jas had worked together on. Jas had also brought in Roisin Vane, a healer who specialized in obliviation who worked within the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungos, who had vowed to keep Niels a secret and who visited her every day to monitor her recovery, which, as of this morning, was going well.

She palmed her planner, still facing her calendar while writing in it, thinking that if she finished her three-thirty appointment early, she would have enough time to run to Diagon Alley to pick up a gift. She also thought of Géraldine for a moment, something had changed in her upon the rediscovery of her sister Émelie, even ready to pop as she was, there was a fed-up energy that she seemed to radiate and, in all honesty, Hermione couldn’t blame her, she’d certainly been surprised when quiet little Annie at the sanctuary had actually been one of her closest friend’s missing siblings the whole time, and it drove home the need to finish her bill.

Caught in her thoughts, she almost missed the light knock on the door frame of her office, the office that had once been Kai’s, and was now hers.

“Hermione? You have a visitor,” Nia called timidly from outside, she was actually Jas’s younger sister who had graduated from Hogwarts in the summer. She had originally started her internship in Magical Law at Nott Firm, but apparently, had not gotten on well with the seasoned barristers there, so she’d petitioned and applied to transfer her internship to Javehri & Potter, and officially made the move in November; she was a sweet girl who was actually courting Carina Black…against the staunch disapproval of the other girl’s family.

Absorbing what she said, Hermione frowned and glanced at the clock again, it was still twenty-five minutes until her next appointment, curiously she called out for Nia to show them in while she noted the ache in her chest seemed to strengthen, a development that has plagued her since she’d last seen Tom weeks ago.

And of course, think of the devil and he shall appear.

Led into the office by Nia, who gave her an apologetic look, not that she would know that Hermione had been avoiding him, but more that Nia knew that she was strict about keeping schedules and usually frowned upon unexpected visits. She gave the younger witch and reassuring smile before dismissing her, trying to ignore how Tom’s eyes on her felt like a thousand suns.

She sat at her desk slowly, observing him warily as the ache in her chest deepened to an almost painful degree, unable to look away because it felt like she was starving to see him. She took a deep breath to get a hold of herself while Nia left the office, closing the door behind her before Hermione could even think to correct her.

“I could be mistaken, but I do not think you are my two o’clock appointment,” she started pulling out her appointment list as an excuse to not look at him, “I am positive you are not Mrs. Hernandez,” she spoke dryly, glancing back up at him to see his lip twitch in humour. She hadn’t seen him in weeks, hadn’t returned to the castle for anything, having just gone and purchased anything else she needed, because frankly, she’d been afraid to.

It was one thing to discover that he was likely behind her solitary confinement for ulterior motives, something she already didn’t want to think about, but another entirely was the pain she had felt that first night, and how terrified she’d been. The next day, despite her reassurances that she was feeling better, Jas had hauled her off to St. Mungos anyhow, to the Janus Thickey Ward because her friend had been convinced that she’d been cursed, only for the healer on duty to find nothing.

That anxious part of her mind whispered that perhaps she was making everything up after all, and she was afraid to bring up how she felt because she now doubted if she was actually even feeling anything, or if it was all in her head. Despite all of this, she did not regret leaving, being back at the flat and on her own gave her a sense of responsibility again, and just completing menial tasks had her feeling more in control than she had felt in months; so regardless of his reasons for being here, she would not be changing her mind.

“Why are you here, Tom?” she asked finally, licking her lips nervously, she noted that they were a bit chapped and made a mental note to also purchase a balm when she went to Diagon Alley later, winter had come early, and it had been merciless thus far.

“Am I not allowed to check up on you?” he asked idly, glancing at his nails–as if uninterested–before glancing back up at her, and she felt her ire sear through her, she wasn’t sure if it was the ache in her chest, or that she finally had enough, but the words were out of her before she could reign them in.

“Do not sit there and pretend you care for my well-being,” she snapped, she was not in the mood to play his games, not now. He promptly cocked an eyebrow and slightly tilted his head, an action that would have normally had her wincing over potential consequences of making him angry but now only made her tired, not to mention that persistent ache in her chest just seemed to aggravate her past the point of caring, anymore.  
  
‘I believe you.’  
  
Jas had said that to her, not knowing how much she had needed to hear it.  
  
“I know you locked me in my room for two months, you’re lucky that all I wanted to do was leave and not curse you to hell and back…Ah!” she held up a finger as he opened his mouth, “non! You do not get to tell me another thestral-shite lie about how I was asleep, I know I was not, and you have some nerve showing up here after gaslighting me for months!” she ranted, accent getting thicker as her temper and volume raised, she couldn’t help herself, it was as if two years of everything she had buried deep inside while living with him at the castle was coming to surface.  
  
“You helped me when my mother was murdered, and I will forever be grateful for that, but that never gave you the right to control my body or my life, that does not belong to you, _I do not belong to you,”_ she finished, with fire and fury in her heart, matching the stony coolness of his own glare, which she returned with as much ferocity as she could muster.

After a moment of the staredown, the air thick with tension, a knock sounded at the door and Nia opened it and poked her head in.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, Hermione, but Mrs. Hernandez, your two o’clock in here, shall I ask her to wait?” she asked, nervously glancing to where Tom sat.

Hermione clucked her tongue and without tearing her glare away, she stood.

“No need, Lord Slytherin was just leaving,” she walked towards the door to the office to hold it open as he rose from his seat to follow her. Nia had ducked back to the reception area to, no doubt, gather her appointment; but before he was about to pass her to leave, he stopped in front of her, and lifted his hand faster than she could react. Tom caressed her cheek almost gently, and for a moment, her mind went blank, she had to fight not to close her eyes in bliss and lean into his touch.

He removed his hand before she could do either that or jerk away, while he looked very much like the cat that got the cream, expression satisfied, she tilted her chin up in defiance, glare strengthened, as he huffed a small laugh.

  
“We’ll see.”

  
She almost didn’t catch it, his murmur was so low, but when she did, it settled a curl of anxiety in her belly that she did not have the time or mental fortitude to analyze at that moment. She blinked and he was gone, snapping back to reality as Nia guided Mrs. Hernandez to her office, prompting her to place a fake smile and guide her to the client chair that Tom had just vacated.

All the while, she could not stop her hands from shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyy I managed a new chapter sooner than I'd thought! 
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone, hope you are all staying safe and healthy!


	19. Chapter 18 - To Live Authentically

**Slight depiction of child torture (non-explicit)**

Chapter 18 – Chateau Lestrange – December 19th, 1947

It was three in the morning when Leta forced herself to wakeup, carefully, while removing the blankets from her person, she listened outside of her room for any sounds before sitting up and crossing her legs upon hearing nothing.

Since Slytherin had come through with his side of the bargain, sending her the text that would help her unlock her magic, she had been working on just that. She had since discovered that reconnecting with her magic was a lot harder than she had originally anticipated, the main direction within the text insisted on the help of another, using magic to target the seal and release it. However, it was not impossible to do it on her own, only that a copious amount of meditation was needed to balance her mind and make peace with her life, which in retrospect, was as vague of instruction as one could get.

So, for the last five months, Leta had retired earlier in the night so that she would wake in the early hours of the morning to meditate, seeing as it was the only time of the day that was likely to be unbothered. She hadn’t necessarily been successful yet, but she did feel like she was getting somewhere with it, as during each meditation session in which she searched for her magic inside her, she was instead guided to a memory.

Each memory that she had been guided to, were the ones that were supremely traumatic, whether by someone else’s hand, or her own, and remembering the instructions, she relived them through meditation in an attempt to come to terms and accept them. It didn’t seem to be in any type of chronological order, but by severity, and some mornings she failed with certain memories. Frankly, it had been a nightmare to relive her mistake that had killed her baby brother that fateful night in 1901 for an entirety of two months.

It had been then that with the majority of memories, in order to make peace, she discovered that she needed to forgive herself before she could move on from the specific memory. She understood now that blaming herself endlessly for something she did as a child, a child neglected of any and all physical and emotional affection had done nothing but hinder her, shrouding her eyes from the good she was still capable of and could offer the world.

She had made a mistake, she had been six years old, sleep-deprived from her brother’s cries, that she made a mistake, and it had caused his death. Leta remembered what she said to Newt all those years ago, in the catacombs of Père Lachaise, and she remembered believing those words to her very core.

_“You’re too good, Newt. You never met a monster you couldn’t love.”_

But she hadn’t been a monster, not then anyhow, and Newt had seen that even years earlier during their time together in Hogwarts, where the rest of the student body had denigrated her upon the slightest provocation, it simply took her this long to see as well. She was flawed, certainly, but she was not evil, and she was not the monster she had convinced herself that she had been up until the blue flames at Père Lachaise.

So, with a deep sigh, she idly cracked her neck and straightened her posture ‒ as much as she could sitting on her soft bed ‒ and closed her eyes. As she evened her breathing, the world around her started to slowly fall away, and when she opened them again, she was somewhere else. Gone were the streams of moonlight from her window as they fell across her sheets, as well as the quiet ticking of the clock on her wall. Instead, the air was humid, and the sun blazed through the open windows of the estate, she remembered this day vividly, despite having no control of herself.

It was a safe house in Monte Carlo, Monaco, in the middle of the summer of 1938, she stood stoically against a wall, with a child curled frightened at her feet. She watched as Grindelwald circled Ministre d’Etat Devereaux, the Minister of State that controlled the magical governance within Monaco, which worked under the muggle monarchy.

Despite the heat, both she and Grindelwald were both suited in full robes, and she watched as the hem of his followed behind his steps as he circled his victim, who was bound with an incarcerous at his feet, while the child at Leta’s feet was the Minister’s young daughter. Inwardly, she flinched because she knew what was to come.

“Tu pourrais être d’accord, tu n’as rien à perdre…” Grindelwald’s soft timber purred, he was threatening the other wizard into compliance, to allow him the use of Monte Carlo as a base. She remembered why he had wanted it so badly, because of its proximity to France, Germany, Italy, Spain, and Algeria, it had been an ideal hold to access any one of those countries in mass numbers.

However, the Minister had been difficult, having withstood torture without having buckled, until Grindelwald had ordered her to bring the wife and child of the Minister to that room. She had done as bidden, unable to do anything else, and in the corner of her eye, she could see the corpse of the wife crumpled onto the floor.

Minister Devereaux’s eyes seem to avoid both his child and his dead wife as if hoping to convince Grindelwald that their pain was not affecting him. Leta had mentally commended him, it was a brave act, but also foolish because she knew there was nothing that escaped Grindelwald’s notice. He was in an impossible situation, if he gave in, he would inflict the magical war onto the Mediterranean and possibly most of North Africa, lengthening to war by who knows how long, or watch those he loved be tortured and killed in the most brutal way imaginable.

“Je ne peux pas te permettre de faire ça,” Devereaux spoke, with an admirable attempt to keep his voice from shaking. Grindelwald tsked and glanced up at her, almost bored with the who charade.

“Leta, crucio the child for thirty seconds,” he dictated, his tone almost as bored as his expression, though there was something manic in his mismatched eyes, and as it was a direct order, she could do nothing but obey. She remembered screaming inside of her mind to try and stop herself, the child’s high-pitched screams practically reverberating off the walls.

_I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, I do not want to do this, please, please, PLEASE._

Thirty seconds were up, and the girl twitched on the floor, weakly crying for her father, who was sobbing and trying to wretch himself from his bindings.

“Je te demanderai encore,” Grindelwald spoke again, though his voice sounded as if it were coming from underwater, and she was reminded once more that this was a memory. It was one of the fiercest that had made her despise herself, regardless that she hadn’t any choice over any of it. Her eyes traced Grindelwald’s arm, running down to study his wand which was held loosely in his hand, what she would have given to have been able to slit his throat and rip that wand from his hands.

“Laisse-la tranquille! S’il-vous-plait! Genevieve!” crowed the Minister, his voice cracking in his panic and Leta wanted nothing more than for this memory to be over.

How was she supposed to come to terms with what she had done? What she had been forced to do? They said only a particularly strong mind could fight against an imperius, and not once in twenty years had she ever gotten remotely close, perhaps she had internalized ‒ to a certain degree ‒ that maybe she hadn’t wanted to fight, but that wasn’t right either because she knew that she did.

“Leta, once more.”

_How could she forgive herself for this?_

She watched as she raised her wand once more to the child, once more listened to her screams, observed that maniacal glint in Grindelwald’s eye, and she knew. She knew then that she could never forgive herself for this, for anything that she had ever done to hurt another person, but she _could_ repay the actual monsters tenfold for their legitimate enjoyment of these crimes against the world, against muggleborns, against muggles, squibs, half-bloods, everyone.

It was in that moment that something clicked, in her soul, in her mind, deep in her chest, arms, legs, and core. She felt as if she was on the edge of a climax with an understanding of something she had otherwise unaware of.

It was okay to not be able to forgive herself because to forgive was to excuse her actions in some capacity, and she would not do that.

However, what she could do, was atone. She could atone for her actions from this day forward by helping those that she had hurt, because only then could she be happy with herself and live authentically.

With that last thought, she let herself fall over the precipice to that significant something and when she opened her eyes, dawn had peeked through the window, rising from the east, splashing light across her bed as she listened to the ticking of the clock on the wall. A small smile twitched at her lips at the vibration of her magic as it tingled through her limbs, because for the first time in twenty years, she was whole, and she was in control. Her magic had been unlocked, and this time, she would not take it for granted.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – December 20th, 1947

The chatter in the Great Hall was deafening as he poked at his oatmeal, anxiety curling in his belly, as it had been without reprieve since his apprehension by Professor Weasley in October. It felt like he was living his days in suspension, for something to go wrong, for the other shoe to drop because he knew it would, he had no faith in this world and having gone through literal centuries of data, proved that it would never genuinely support a struggling muggleborn.

He had been careless to have been caught, that was true, but he felt as if there were a shadow of a beast sneaking up on him now, and that there was nothing standing between himself and its jaws.

He heard the clattering of a spoon that snapped him out of his thoughts, the noise from students around him making him feel jittery and ill, and recognizing the oncoming panic, he forced his attention to latch on to the nearest conversation while he tried to regulate his breathing.

He finally calmed down as students excitedly started clearing the tables, no doubt eager to start the trek towards Hogsmead to catch the train. Today was the start of the winter hols, with the twelve days of Yule starting on Monday the twenty-second. He looked down at his abandoned breakfast and sighed, and conceding that he wasn’t going to finish it, he stood up and followed his housemates out of the hall, his bad slung over his shoulder and trunk likely already on the train.

He would be spending the hols with Hermione and Jas at the flat, or so Hermione’s letter told him two weeks ago.

It had relieved him to read ‒ though she hadn’t mentioned directly, it was simply implied ‒ that she had left Slytherin Castle and left Tom. Leo thought it was a good start to what he’s been telling her for almost a year now, but didn’t want to get his hopes up, not until he saw and spoke to her.

He had also decided that he would be sharing his research with her, he had disguised his journals to look like regular textbooks in his trunk because of his paranoia, they were just for classes he wasn’t taking, he felt that if something happened to him, then she would know and recognize which were which (though he felt a bit silly about it now that he was almost on the train). He had wanted to tell her earlier, when he was first caught, but had come to terms quickly that it probably wasn’t safe to tell her something of this magnitude via letter.

As he reached the train’s platform in Hogsmead, he heard a few of the other Ravenclaw muggleborns beckon him over to share their cabin with them, to which he reluctantly agreed to, figuring he was better off with people than alone. As he settled in and the train started to pull out of the station, he felt himself relax a bit, though not entirely.

It was roughly an hour into the ride when one of the muggleborns, this one a British dark-skinned boy by the name of Peter, pulled out today’s copy of The Daily Prophet. Leo never bothered to sign up for a subscription, partly because he stubbornly refused to care what happened in this world, and also, if he were ever actually curious, then any one of the other students usually didn’t mind tossing him their copy when they were finished.

However, as Peter flapped the paper open after searching for the quidditch section, Leo got a glimpse of the front page, and reading the headline, he was certain that his heart was in his throat.

_WEASLEY LORD FOUND DEAD IN HOME_

“Can I see that?” he asked, unable to tear his eyes from the front page, Peter looked up at him confusedly, half folding the paper to glance at the article, before shrugging and separating it from the rest of his paper and handing it to him. Taking it from the other boy, he refolded it to just read the main article.

_A shocking tragedy has hit our world in the death of an old friend, Lord Ignatius Weasley, age 79, who was found unresponsive in his own home Wednesday evening. Nothing is known currently as to the cause of death, only that Lord Weasley leaves behind a distinguished career within our Wizengamot as well as a nephew, six grand-nephews, one grand-niece, and one great-grandniece._

_Memorial service will be held at Cheltenham Cemetery for Magical Beings on Sunday, December 21 st, 1947 at precisely 11 am. _

Although a part of him snorted that they didn’t mention near the end of Ron’s expected child (probably because it was a half-blood) it was overshadowed by a sense of dizziness and pounding in his ears.

He was going to be sick.

Feeling the bile rise up from his stomach, he tossed the paper back at Peter, ignoring his indignant ‘hey!’ before darting out of the cabin, towards the lavatory little ways down the cart, shoving a poor first year out of the way, a few muggleborns from his cabin calling out their concerns from the door. He made it to the toilet in time before locking the door behind him and emptying the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl, suddenly grateful that he hadn’t finished his oatmeal earlier.

Ignatius Weasley being dead could not be a coincidence, which meant that somehow, his research had been leaked. He lifted himself from the toilet as a knock sounded at the door.

“Just a moment,” he croaked out, wiping at his chin with one hand while the other pulled at the chain overhead to flush the toilet. He went to the sink and turned on the cold water tap only, scooping a bit into his palm so he could wash his mouth out as knocking resounded once more at the door.

“I said one moment!” he snapped, after spitting out the water and using his sleeve to wipe his face dry, but as soon as he did, the door swung open, the side of it catching his arm hard enough to bruise due to the small space. He was roughly shoved backwards towards the toilet, where he awkwardly tripped but gripped at the walls so that he wouldn’t fall. He looked up to see a man he didn’t know, and the end of his wand pointed between his eyes, it sparked red and it was the last thing he saw before everything went black.

Alcazar Deslizan – December 20th, 1947

Tom idly twirled the quill between his fingers, his eyes roving broadly around his office, it felt as if everything around him was in motion towards some ground-breaking change, and he felt unsettled, yet galvanized by it all.

Abraxas, with his help, had expertly set Madam Amelia Bones and the Aurors on a wild goose chase for a supposedly escaped Draco Malfoy, which had given him enough time to check and secure all of his loose ends.

His friend had done a one-eighty since that night he’d requested his help, back to his usual flamboyant self, though it came at the belief that his brother was still alive and indeed somewhere out there, and in the meantime, Lestrange was scurrying like a rat to cover his tracks if his mass closing of brothels and continuous tagging by both UK and French law enforcement was anything to go by. He believed the Lestrange empire was on its last legs, or at least, that’s what he’d come to understand from Antonin’s unusual visit last night.

His friend, after using the mark on his arm to notify him of his visit, had sauntered into his office after using to floo to enter Alcazar Deslizan to question him, puzzling enough, about his correspondence with Leta Lestrange. He knew what Antonin generally did for a living, and that he routinely took odd jobs from Lestrange, and assuming that he would have vowed to not say anything explicitly of what the job entailed, he played along.

Though he would not have been a Slytherin if he did not ask for something in return, of course, information was money after all. It was then that he squirrelled a favour from the charismatic Russian, who, oddly enough, didn’t seem to mind. Favours were a precious commodity, he’d come to learn, disdainfully remembering that Orion was currently sitting comfortably on his own offered favour, with what seemed like no intention of using it any time soon.

After he extracted the promise of the favour, he’d divulged everything concerning his correspondence with Leta, including the title of the text he’d sent her. He still had no idea where she fell on the scale of useful acquaintances, as he was keeping everything Lestrange (which unfortunately also meant Bella too) at arm's length until the scandal dropped, not willing to risk his carefully crafted reputation for anything.

Speaking of which, as it stood, his reputation within the magical community was quite safe, in fact, it was better than he could have ever hoped for as not even bloody Albus Dumbledore or the Progressive Party could find any fault in anything he did. Even recently, it had been discovered that a muggleborn at the manor he’d donated back in July ‒ a move he was still receiving praise for ‒ was discovered to be one of Dubois-Weasley’s missing younger siblings, something he’d been informed of and had contacted his source within the Daily Prophet to milk the situation for all it was worth.

He was quite positive that whatever happened in the coming months, that his position and power were secure.

Even his ‘fallout’ with Hermione did not discourage him, because he did not yet see it as unsalvageable. Of course, he had been angry at first, but after witnessing how his reactions affected her, he had given her some time before visiting. However, when he did, the Hermione he found had not been the one plagued by trauma, listless and accepting of his decisions.

No, the Hermione he had found had been the same that had craned her neck to glare at him during their time in Hogwarts, the same Hermione who had captured his interest in the first place.

_“No need, Lord Slytherin was just leaving.”_

He snorted, if he implied for a second that he hadn’t even been slightly aroused by her little display of power, he’d be lying. In fact, the change she displayed is exactly what he wanted from her, would it have been preferable if she hadn’t turned on him with the discovery of her confinement? Yes, but was he worried?

No. No, he was not.

He was not worried because he had felt exactly what she had when he’d grazed her cheek with his hand, that feeling of longing and bliss that had positively flabbergasted her. It was clear that his soul piece inside of her was influencing her thoughts and emotions on a personal level that his ring could never reach, and that no amount of occlumency could prevent.

She was just beginning to come into her own, and he eagerly looked forward to the day that she stood toe to toe with him on every level, because reeling her back in would be the sweetest victory alongside his absolute power over the UK and his immortality.

Everything around him was in motion, and all he had to do was to be patient and play his cards extremely carefully. Lestrange would be removed from his path, no longer able to obstruct his success once his whole operation blew up, and here he would be to pick up the pieces and put the Wizarding UK back together again.

As for his Horcruxes, as it stood, he was content with the four, though he still had every intention of reaching the desired number of seven. For now, however, he was more interested in detailing the effects to his day-to-day mannerisms and behaviour, not to mention physical changes; he was, after all, the first wizard to ever attempt such a feat, and if there was one thing he had learned from his position as an Unspeakable, it was to record his research.

It was important to make note of inconsistencies, and how his split soul was continuously altering him because he was not foolish enough to believe that it wasn’t. He had caught a glimpse of his eyes in passing, seen them turn from his natural pale green to a violent red before turning back. Any physical changes, although not entirely unwelcome, were not ideal, at least to a certain degree, and he would be researching preventative measures in the future before attempting his fifth Horcrux.

As for Hermione, this new ‒ no, not new ‒ _resurging_ spine of hers made her unpredictable, and although it excited him, it also reminded him not to underestimate her. If she was meant for him, as he’d come to believe, then she would be a force to reckon with, just as he was.

He would just have to ensure to aim her viciousness away from his direction by any means necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (vague, please correct me if I am wrong)
> 
> _"you can accept, you have nothing to lose,"  
>  "I cannot allow you to do this,"  
> "I'll ask once more,"  
> "Leave her alone! please!" _
> 
> This took me a while to write, and I'm sorry it's such a short chapter. Depression has been kicking my ass again, especially since my whole province is on lockdown again, meaning all of my hours at work got cut, causing me to panic about maybe losing my benefits and maybe not being able to pay rent, j-just a whole lot of stress that turned my brain to mush. I start school again in two weeks, and ideally, I'd like to update at least two more times before then, but I'm not gonna make any promises.
> 
> Anyway hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and that you are all staying safe and healthy.


	20. Chapter 19 - Fury

Ministry of Magic – December 21st, 1947

Hermione was exhausted.

Though it wasn’t in the way that she normally was, where ever-pervasive tiredness clung to her shoulders for days, but that from a lack of sleep and worry that seemed to grip every one of her muscles.

She exited the floo, absentmindedly charming the ashes from her shoulders as she briskly made her way through the Atrium to the lifts that would take her to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. As she waited for the next available lift, she mentally reviewed the last‒she glanced at her watch‒ten hours.

The Hogwarts Express had been scheduled to arrive by ten at night, so she had gotten to the platform at half-nine, but as the time had continued to climb with no sight of Leo, so had her anxiety. Once the platform was nearly empty, she had gone to find the conductor, who had been doing last-minute rounds, only to be given Leo’s trunk, which had been abandoned in one of the cabins. The conductor had explained that it happened sometimes where the elves packed student’s trunks who opted last minute to spend the winter hols at school, so he’d intended to return it to the school before raising any alarm.

Hermione had instead asked for it, offering to confirm for herself at the school, which the conductor had no qualms with and after securing in into her pocket, she apparated to Hogsmead, willing herself not to jump to conclusions. Upon reaching the gates, she had sent a patronus message to the caretaker, requesting that he inform either the headmaster or deputy-headmaster of her arrival. Unfortunately, the hope that she’d been holding on to, that Leo had opted to stay at school, had instantly deflated when Professor Dumbledore came to collect her with a troubled expression on his face.

A lift door opened, briefly jolting her from her recollection and she entered it, half-heartedly soothing a hand over her chest to quell the ever-present ache, she shuffled to the side to make room for other occupants before requesting her stop from the operator. As the lift began to move, she considered what she had learned. Professor Dumbledore had informed her of Leo’s apparent ‘project’, and she’d been enraged that it had been discovered in October and neither she nor Tom, had been notified.

(At least, she didn’t know for certain that he hadn’t, and she tried to resist the urge to go a wring his neck and demand answers).

It had also broken her heart to discover that Leo had done all of this extensive research on muggleborns and hadn’t told her, but she kicked the feeling to the side, instead, forcing herself to focus on the issue at hand.

From then, the Aurors had been called and a missing persons report had been submitted to the Department. Aurors were then sent in groups of three, directed by Dawlish, on brooms to trace the train tracks for any signs of him while she’d been advised to go home, rest and check back in the morning. That was why she was here now, however, instead of resting through the night as advised (but really, who could?), she had stayed up to go through his trunk for evidence of his research (also hoping to find some organic material, like a hair, to use to track him, but she’d had no luck as Leo kept his trunk neurotically tidy).

She had eventually found the endless journals she had gifted him, charmed to look like the sixth year Care of Magical Creatures and Divination supplementary texts, respectively, which were two classes that she knew he did not take and had proceeded to read through them for the rest of the night.

Hermione thought about Leo’s work as she exited the lift and made her way to the Aurors Office. It was organized and concise, and she’d seen exactly what he had, the aberration too noticeable to ignore‒that being the Weasley line‒but what had troubled her was that it meant that one of the Weasleys hadn’t been careful enough when sharing said information. The Weasleys were one of the families here in the UK that she had respected the most and trying to come to terms with any one of them being so careless with what was obviously delicate information, was hard to digest.

Though, Hermione made it a point to not jump to conclusions, not at least until she’d had the opportunity to talk to them and that she knew for sure.

Approaching the front desk, she asked the secretary if she could inform Auror Dawlish of her presence and proceeded to wait while she’d gone to do so. After a couple of minutes of anxious nail-tapping on the surface of the front desk, the secretary came back and escorted her to the office, where he sat at his desk going over paperwork. He looked unshaven and haggard, his brown hair mussed and grey eyes with bags under them, she felt a pang of sympathy as he’d likely been up through the night as she had (and realized right then that she probably looked no better).

“Miss Granger-Riddle, please, take a seat,” he greeted, beckoning her to the seat adjacent from his desk, his tone drawn and tired, and she obliged him.

“Auror Dawlish, thank you for seeing me, have you found anything?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat, hoping for good news.

“Unfortunately, no leads were found during the initial search last night, which means that this case will now be transferred to Investigations, they will likely start interviewing students who had been on the train…” his voice began to drown out after she’d heard ‘no leads’, the pounding of blood in her ears was positively deafening. The last time a missing person’s case went to Investigations, they’d announced it to be a cold case months later. To this day, years later, there had still been no closure on Kai’s disappearance, and currently, she was trying not to panic at the idea of it being Leo’s fate as well.

“Miss…? …Miss Granger-Riddle?”

She snapped out of her thoughts, noting the look of concern on Dawlish’s face and realized that she hadn’t actually heard a word he’d said.

“I apologize, Auror Dawlish…it’s been a long night. Do you know who the case will be given to in Investigations?” she asked, trying not to let the disappointment colour her tone.

“That’s alright, I understand that this must be hard for you. The case will be continued by Ronald Weasley in Investigations, are you familiar?” he asked, and she nodded. She trusted Ron, despite her earlier worries, and this would also give her the chance to speak to him about them. She decided then that she would check to see if he was in office after she finished here.

“Thank you, Auror Dawlish, for your time,” she replied, feeling weary, and getting up to leave the office, she barely registered that he’d responded in kind. She cleared the Auror’s office and walked to Investigations, unsure if Ron would be in, both because his great-uncle’s memorial service was supposed to be today and because it was Sunday (though he had said he was trying to get in as many workdays as possible before the baby came so that he could take a few weeks off to help when the time came. As a husband and father, he wasn’t given any paternity leave automatically, which Hermione thought was ridiculous).

No sooner did she enter the Investigations Office, however, did she run into him, as he made his way out, seemingly in a rush.

“Ron!” she called, grabbing his attention and frowning at his look of panic, “what’s wrong? Has something happened?” she asked.

“Hermione! Hi! I’m so sorry, but I have to go, Dine is at St. Mungos now, her water just broke,” he rambled, grabbing her arms, his look of panic morphing into a fearful one.

“Oh Merlin, the baby is coming,” he whispered, horrified as though it only just hit him now, and Hermione was speechless, the urge to question about Leo’s case burning at the tip of her tongue but before she could say anything, he let her go and tore off out of the office, leaving her both flabbergasted and still.

“Wait…what about?” she softly began but trailed off before regathering her composure, straightening her robes, and leaving the office as well. As she kept an even pace back to the lifts, she tried desperately to ignore the block in her throat and the tightness in her chest. She repeated to herself that she was sleep-deprived, and that was the only reason she felt so reactive.

‘Besides, there isn’t anything Ron could do BUT go to the hospital,’ she reasoned mentally, but then why did it still feel like she took a hit? After all, it was just bad timing, right?

‘…but Leo doesn’t have time,’ she thought morosely, every hour that passed and he remained missing was more time for him to be hurt, and it felt like no one was treating his disappearance seriously.

She made it to the floo area numbly, half-heartedly grabbing a handful of powder and making her way back to the flat. She noted the pervasive silence as she sat down into the loveseat with her head in her hands, remembering that Jas was likely in Ireland with Healer Vane, seeing to Niels. Both the sense of loneliness and uselessness grew, and she swore that she could hear the seductive voice in her head that suggested she go to Tom and that he would help her if she only asked.

Feeling enraged at the idea, she mentally slammed the thought away before marching her way to her room, hoping a shower would clear her thoughts enough to come up with a plan.

Grabbing a change of undergarments, nylons, and a new set of robes, she made her way back to the bath, charming the water to run and heat up while she undressed. Leaving the outfit that she’d been wearing for almost twenty-four hours crumpled on the tiles, she tied her hair up and switched the toggle of the faucet into shower-mode.

Quickly, she hopped in and began washing herself, letting her mind empty while she completed the task, and when she was done, she stood still under the water‒with an impervious charm protecting her hair‒and considered her options.

She could go to the hospital, she did, after all, have a bag of baby clothes and swaddling blankets ready to give Géraldine, having seen her earlier that week and having been informed that the baby was due ‘any day now’. She could ask Ron if he would be passing Leo’s case to another investigator, and if he was, leave after giving her well wishes to go harass whoever that was.

Hermione nodded, pleased that she now had a semblance of a plan, she turned the water off and dried herself with a lazy swish of her wand. She then lotioned before dressing, (the winter cold making her look greyer than brown) and then attempted to shimmy her nylons up her legs, wincing each time she had to use a reparo when they tore, as they kept getting stuck.

Finally succeeding, she clipped the garter straps to the top, slipped her undergarments and brassier before pulling her robes over her head, sinching them at the waist and fastening the buttons at her wrists and collar. Only then, did she look at her hair, and promptly gave a tired whine when she saw all the flyaways.

Taking her hair down and shaking her head, she decided she couldn’t be bothered to detangle it, instead, she poured a generous amount of Sleakeazy’s styling serum into her palm and proceeded to smooth it into her hair, using a bristled brush to sleek it back into a bun at the nape of her neck.

Satisfied that she now looked decently put together‒foregoing makeup entirely for lack of effort‒she brushed her teeth, cleaned up her mess and left to find her baby peace offering. Once she was set and ready to go, she wrote a note for Jas and floo’d to St. Mungos.

Hermione patiently lined up at the front desk, requesting direction to the maternity ward and for the Dubois-Weasley room number when it was her turn and successfully acquiring the information, she made her way there. Taking the lift to level four, which was maternity and pediatrics, she then carefully scanned the room numbers that she passed, eventually running into Harry, who was sitting on the benches in the small waiting area. She waved a greeting silently before wearily taking the seat next to him.

“Nothing yet?” she asked, and upon the shake of his head, she leaned hers back and closed her eyes.

“You look exhausted,” he commented, and she snorted, running a hand down her face. The shower had certainly helped refresh her, but clearly, she still looked run through, and frankly, she had to agree because she felt it too.

“Mm, it’s been a long night,” she replied, opening her eyes to look at him as she spoke, but frowned at his look of confusion. It hit her then, that of all the Aurors she’d dealt with in the past…however many hours (she’d officially lost count), that she hadn’t seen either him or his father, realizing then that he didn’t know what had happened.

“Neither you or your father were working yesterday or today, were you?” she asked, and he shook his head warily.

“No, well, Da is tracking Draco Malfoy’s case, I think he’s somewhere on the continent, but I took the weekend off to watch the Harpies against the Falcons in Falmouth, got the Patronus from Ron and apparated over, Gin’s on her way now, why what happened?” he asked, his expression worried and Hermione had to ignore the pang of bitterness she tasted as he described what would have been an idyllic afternoon, violently repressing it to answer his question, ashamed once more that she’d almost made it about her again.

“Leo is missing, presumably taken off the Hogwarts Express, I found his trunk and confirmed with the school that he’d been on it,” she paused, licking her lips anxiously, “the Aurors haven’t found him yet, Auror Dawlish told me this morning that Ron would be taking over the case in Investigations, but…” she stopped, waving her hand to indicate where they were, because, behind one of these doors, Ron was supporting his wife while she gave birth. She glanced back up at Harry and noted that his brown complexion seemed to grey in dawning horror.

“Hermione, I am so sorry, I had no idea. Did the Aurors trace the tracks?” he asked, his tone holding a note of plea as if hoping for something but she couldn’t make heads or tails of it, ignoring the treacherous part of her mind that whispered that he knew something.

“Yes, they spent the night in teams of three combing the tracks, no sign of him was found, I ran into Ron as soon as I left Dawlish’s office, but he’d been on his way here,” she replied, decided then to ask him what she’d just been thinking.

“…Harry, did you know about Leo’s research?” she asked, hesitantly scanning his face, hoping he would deny it but before he could answer, Ginny slid in front of them, out of breath, having likely bolted from the lifts. She looked towards the door to their left‒Hermione only just realizing that it was the room her friends were in‒she seemed to be unaware of the tension she’d walked into.

“Okay, I’m here, mum and dad are on their way, apparently they’re dropping Jean-Pierre off with Fleur, did you two hear anything yet?” she shot off quickly but trailed off towards the end as if just noticing what was going on. Ginny looked towards her, confusing lacing her expression.

“Hermione? What’s going on?”

“Leo is missing. Harry…please, did you know about the research?” she pleaded again, noting that he’d turned to look a Ginny, who seemed to pale considerably at that moment, causing the freckles on her face to stand out stark on her face.

“I-I know…because, well, Bill told us, our family, and I told Harry…” Ginny explained in a shaking voice, and Hermione could not believe was she was hearing, because of how careless Bill had been, if he had told all of his siblings, who knew if the information had even truly leaked from Ginny, but it still infuriated her that she hadn’t been careful either. The sheer disregard and negligence baffled her and she put her head in her hands, grinding the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to battle the rising rage within her.

“I am so sorry, Hermione, I-I wasn’t thinki‒”

“‒no, you weren’t,” she interrupted, standing up and facing her, noting her alarmed expression.

“You didn’t think because it doesn’t affect you! It doesn’t even take a few handfuls of literal children being trafficked for you to understand how Wizarding Europe is raping and killing people like me through sheer hatred of us. Didn’t even cause you to pause and think about how naming Leo to any pureblood or halfblood‒with the research he had‒could hurt or kill him,” she snapped, and Harry stood up, ready to defend Ginny, who was silent.

“Hermione hold on! She told me and my family only! I would trust these people with my life! My mother is muggleborn!” he argued, his tone biting.

“You would trust them with YOUR life! But what about mine? Or Leo’s? Who knows if he is even alive right now! Because you trust people who could not give a damn about people like me! You say your mother is muggleborn, but what do you know of the muggle world? Of the world she came from!?” she asked, her tone rising, knowing that he knew next to nothing as he’d offhandedly remarked on it for years.

It was the reason that she’d scratched Lily Evans-Potter from her list of possible allies concerning Le Plafond de Verre awhile ago because it had become apparent that she had assimilated to the best of her ability to likely protect herself and her children, a decision that Hermione couldn’t even blame her for.

Harry stared down at her, nostrils flaring and green eyes vibrant with defiance, but as he opened his mouth, likely to argue more, she found she wasn’t in the mood to let him.

“I am tired. I am tired of fighting for my right to exist and to be here. It should not be my responsibility to fix all of this! But here I am, doing it because nobody else will! You all say that you do not support the unequal treatment of muggleborns, pat yourselves on the shoulder because _‘Well, I would never! I have a friend, wife, mother, cousin, great-aunt’s dog twice-removed who is muggleborn!’_ but then turn around and benefit all the same from a system that traffics children. Your privilege is _blinding_ you of your culpability and convincing you all the same that your action is not required when it is!” she paused, taking a breath.

“The only way to fix the system is for the people who created it, and the people who benefit to finally start seeing beyond their own noses and start giving a damn!” she finished, her chest heaving.

She took one look at their stunned expressions and felt a smidgen of guilt for having unloaded all of that onto them, but it was short-lived because she realized that she meant every word. Noticing that they weren’t going to respond, she left the bag of baby necessities that she’d brought on the seat she’d vacated and simply left.

As she turned the corner, she walked right into someone, who instantly grabbed at her arms to steady her. Looking up and seeing amber eyes, she recoiled back, ripping Rodolphus Lestrange’s hands off of her and taking a few steps back, unnerved by his unrestrained survey of her person.

“Miss Granger-Riddle, I must say, I could not help but overhear your riveting little speech,” he drawled and she narrowed her eyes at him before looking around the hall, noting that they were still in the maternity ward and then wondering what he was doing here. Seemingly having noticed her thought, he answered.

“My wife is pregnant and is here for a checkup from the healer, and what am I but a supportive husband?”

She nodded warily, only slightly surprised to hear that Bellatrix was pregnant, but then remembered that Tom had once told her of the other witch’s miscarriage, it felt like years ago.

“That is all well and good, Mr. Lestrange, but I should be on my way‒” she began before he cut her off.

“‒It seems that you are in a bit of a predicament, you know…I would be willing to help you, miss. My family has far more considerable reach than even your cousin, perhaps we can come to an agreement,” he proposed, his gaze trailing downwards, making her skin crawl and her earlier anger resurface, she sneered in disgust.

“Did you not just say that you are a supportive husband? I’m afraid that I do not care for your tone, do you even realize how inappropriate you are being? Have some decorum, sir, and never speak to me again, I need nothing from you!” she snapped, before swerving around him and walking off.

There was so much running through her mind, starting with‒first and foremost‒her worry for Leo, which was then compounded by her anger at both the situation and the world in general. Not to mention the offence and disgust from that recent interaction, and on top of her lack of sleep, she was well and truly at her wit's end.

She needed help.

Hermione stood in front of the floo in the St. Mungos main lobby, there was one place, one person that she knew she could ask, and she hated that he felt like her only option. As if sensing that she was thinking about him, that ever-present ache in her chest flared to life (of course, she didn’t know for certain that he had anything to do with it, but considering its timing, she was rather convinced).

Her pride hurt at the idea of giving in, but the thought of Leo being hurt and in danger made up her mind quickly enough. His safety was paramount to everything else right now, including her pride. So, with a deep breath and straightened posture, she scooped a handful of powder into her hand and stepped into the hearth, throwing it down at her feet as she called her destination.

“Alcazar Deslizan.”

Hermione bitterly observed the green flames that engulfed her, changing her environment from St. Mungo's lobby to Slytherin Castle’s grand entrance hall. Steeling her spine, she made her way to the library first in her search for him, though she knew she could have used a point me charm, she wanted to gather as much emotional and mental strength as she could before confronting him.

Travelling the halls, she promptly ignored the insulting hisses from some of the portraits, they were all ancient bickering gossips anyhow, always with something to say and none of it ever good. She rolled her eyes as a particularly nasty insult was muttered from the portrait to her right, they had gotten louder in the last few months, apparently no longer shy over whether she heard them or not.

She thought of Tom, and a sting of exhilaration curled through her, she was conflicted when it came to him. Although she was still bitter that she had to come here, his penchant for control deeply frightening her, a part of her still craved his presence, despite his cruel treatment of her and she hated herself for it.

She hated herself for it because she wanted to stand strong in her convictions and beliefs but being in close proximity of him felt like she was absolving him from hurting her. In that concern, it was bigger than just letting him get away with his atrocious behaviour, it then became glaring that if she couldn’t stand strong in holding him accountable without buckling, then what good was she in standing for anything else she believed in?

What right did she have to fight for the disenfranchised when she couldn’t even fight for herself? And in that vein, where was the line in which she would no longer want him? What would he have to do to get her to officially eject him from her life?

This thought brought her back to the hollow ache in her chest, it was true that she had nothing but coincidences to connect him to it, convincing her that he’d done something to her, and yet, no amount of healer check-ups and specialists could reveal the cause of it. Some days she thought it was all a figment of her imagination, possibly brought on by the sheer amount of trauma she’d endured in such a short span of years.

She remembered thinking, rather wryly, years ago, upon waking up in St. Mungos during her seventh year from that God-awful curse, to find Tom sitting at her bedside, that he couldn’t possibly be good for her health, and promptly snorted.

How right she had been.

It did stand to reason that for all of her intelligence and all of her logic that she was not undamaged by her experiences, however, in spite of that damage, she was still questioning, still wary, and she believed that so long as she remained that way, then she could, no, would, figure out a solution.

As for what Tom may have done to her, her suspicion that the Samhain dream had the answer had led her nowhere, there was simply no definitive research on souls that she could find to support any theories, not to mention that project had essentially been put aside in favour of literally everything else that way happening. She wasn’t giving up just yet, because she knew beyond doubt that he had to have learned whatever it is from somewhere, so she just needed to find what that somewhere was.

Right now, however, her concern was Leo, and whatever price Tom demanded in return for his help.

Walking into the library, she immediately made her way to the grand hearth, where the couches resided and from there she peered in between the shelves, only to see no sign of him. She looked up above the mantle of the hearth and gave a polite nod to Slytherin‒surprisingly, the only portrait in the entire castle that was polite‒and acknowledged Kaa, who basked in the glow of the fire from her place on the rug.

Sarcastically, she addressed the snake.

“Well, I don’t suppose you know where he is?” she asked, obviously not expecting an answer, but as she turned to leave, she saw Kaa raise her head at her, her tongue darting out curiously and then tilting her head.

_“No, I do not, have you checked the other room?”_

Hermione froze, her jaw-dropping lightly and all the thoughts clearing from her mind in utter bafflement.

“Did you just talk?” she asked slowly, looking up at the portrait of Slytherin for some type of support, only to find him observing her with a confused expression.

 _“No, you did,”_ Kaa replied.

Slowly, she nodded, this was bizarre beyond anything she’d ever experienced, and she really did not have the capacity to unpack it right now, so she backed away before turning around and leaving the library. Her mind was spinning, trying to make heads of what just happened.

The snake _talked_ to her.

Technically, she was stressed and in dire need of sleep, so it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibilities that she was hallucinating things. That’s it, it had to be.

_The **fucking** snake talked to her. _

Who was she kidding? This was just another piece of evidence that could solve her mystery. She stopped outside of Tom’s office and leaned against the wall beside the entrance. Hermione knew he was in there, and somehow knew that he was aware of her presence and that he was letting her take all the time she needed, like the smug bastard that he was.

Why did she know this? And furthermore, what could he have possibly done to her to give her the ability of parseltongue? If she’d had any theories before, they were utterly obliterated now. She then thought of the office on the other side of the door, she could see it in her mind’s eye. He was likely sitting at his desk, papers neatly piled, hearth and personal floo to his left and behind him, a liquor bench that was very reminiscent of her mother’s, and to his right…her mind stalled, the makings of an idea forming together.

To his right was his personal bookcase, what if she used her proximity to him to take a look at his selection? It was risky, definitely, but if she found Leo and what was wrong with her with one swoop, surely it was a worthy venture, right? She nodded, plan firmly accepted and with as much bravery that she could muster, she opened the door.

Inside, he stared expectantly at her, chin rested idly upon his intertwined fingers, from his seat at the desk. His expression was innocent, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes that immediately left a sour taste in her mouth.

She studied him, studied the curve of his hair, from its natural part to the cowlick that rested against the right side of his forehead, the sturdy line of his nose and the downward turn of his lip. She couldn’t understand why she craved and wanted someone who infuriated her so much, and who had hurt her so much.

It unearthed a thought that she hadn’t considered until right then, her heart launching itself into her throat at having missed it.

She did not know that he hadn’t anything to do with Leo’s disappearance.

What if this was some elaborate rouse to get her here, and like a fool, she’d fallen for it? Fury burned in her, she knew he was capable of such a deplorable scheme, thinking back to her confinement. In her silence, he had stood up and made his way to her, stopping within a foot’s reach, hands clasped neatly in front of him, patiently waiting and quickly, she reigned in her anger to address him.

“I assume you already know, but Leo is missing,” she clipped, searching his face for any divulgence to his culpability, but found nothing.

“…Yes, I learned this morning. I was informed because I am still his legal guardian and contact,” he spoke carefully, and she narrowed her eyes, the question out of her mouth before she could stop it.

“Did you do it?”

He rolled his eyes and a smirk twitched at his lip.

“Your faith in me is astounding,” he scoffed, and something snapped in her, her earlier fury momentarily getting the best of her. Her hand flew to slap him, but he caught her wrist before it could make contact, his expression furious as he pulled her closer, crushing her against him.

“Don’t you dare try that again,” he whispered savagely, his tone cold, but she fought against his hold, anger wholly taking a hold of her.

“I wouldn’t dare if you didn’t play these fucking games with me!” she snapped, trying to tear her wrist from his grip, wincing when he tightened it.

“Need I remind you that you came to me?” he snarled, arm snaking around her waist to keep her still, wrist still in his hand as he bent her arm behind her, and she couldn’t deny the burn behind her eyes, willing herself not to break, not again, something about his closeness was making her feel unstable and she needed to get out.

“Fine! Then I’ll leave! Clearly, I was wrong to come for you for help!” she bit back, her voice cracking and something in his demeanour instantly changed. His fury cooled and his hand that held pressure at her hip came up to gently cup her cheek, causing her to freeze. She looked up at him and whatever words she was about to say, caught in her throat because, despite his now calm expression, his eyes burned an incandescent red.

“No, you were not wrong,” he murmured, stroking her face, tone gentle and a stark difference to his snarl not a few seconds ago. His skin on hers eradicated all of her fury, leaving her with a sense of euphoria that brought tears to her eyes.

At that moment, as if his touch had opened the floodgates, the reality of all of her traumas came pouring forward, and she found she was utterly incapable of reeling them back in.

 _The war. Paris. Hogwarts. Tom. Nightmares of reliving her papa’s death. Ron. The war again. Her mother’s betrayal and their estrangement. Kai’s disappearance. Her mother’s murder. The depression. Jas’s rejection. Le Plafond de Verre. Malfoy. The children. The confinement. Tom again. Samhain. Leaving Slytherin Castle. The ache in her chest. Aubrey Niels. Leo’s abduction. The talking snake. And Tom_ ‒ _again_ ‒ _oh, God, why were his eyes red?_

She let it all out, holding onto him like a lifeline and he held her just as tightly, only trying to pull away when she was finished, but finding herself wrapped in him. She felt raw in every sense of the word and felt a sense of bitterness that reached her very bones.

She realized then that she’d had enough.

“Please…” she began, voice raspy and he looked down at her. She noted that his eyes were back to their regular pale green.

“Please…what?” he asked, his voice soothing like a balm to her raging headache, she also noted that the ache in her chest was gone.

‘Well, here goes nothing,’ she thought, seeing his bookcase in her periphery, and thinking of her earlier plan.

“I came to ask for your help to find Leo, but please, promise that you had nothing to do with it…” she pleaded, and he closed his eyes tiredly.

“Please, Tom, swear that you had nothing to do with Leo’s disappearance, that you knew nothing about it,” she continued, her hand curling at his waist, gripping at his robes, and drinking in the contentment that flashed across his features, she tried not to think of how good he felt against her.

“I swear that I had nothing to do with Leonard’s disappearance and that I knew nothing about it,” he paused, licking his lips, “and I will help you find him, on one condition,” he stopped, she knew instantly that this was her opportunity and that she needed to play it right.

“What is it?” she asked, pleased that he swore of his un-involvement, but the feeling was dwarfed by her righteous anger at everything he had done to her.

“You will stay here,” he prompted, and she let the apprehension colour her features, for it was genuine.

“I‒” she started, licking her lips, she couldn’t appear too eager.

“That is my only offer,” he pressed, his tone booking no argument, and hesitatingly, she nodded.

“Okay.”

No sooner did the word pass her lips that his mouth crashed down on hers, his grip was vice-like at the nape of her neck, under her bun, while his other held tightly around her upper arm. She let herself melt into him, into his kiss, but her mind was already planning.

She would use him to find Leo, to find out what he’d done to her, and once she completed those tasks, she swore that he would never see her again, this country would never see her again.

Everything else be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I had to rewrite this chapter like seven times before I was happy with it. 
> 
> Well, here's a nice long solo Hermione chapter (6k words. Woah)  
> I also just restarted school, so I'm not sure what my updating schedule looks like, but of course, I'll try my best to update frequently.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter, and I hope you are all staying safe and healthy.


	21. Chapter 20 - Root

The Burrow – December 21st, 1947

There was joyful banter around the Weasley table, it was nearing ten in the evening and the whole family had gathered, along with spouses and close friends to celebrate the birth of Ron and Géraldine’s daughter. The girl, whose name would not be announced to the family for another six days, until the next sabbath and Torah reading‒a small gesture of respect towards Géraldine’s faith‒was born healthy with a strong pair of lungs around two in the afternoon, after roughly six hours of labour and little complication.

It had been about six in the evening when the new parents, a term Ron did not appreciate as he had adopted Jean Pierre almost a year ago, were cleared to leave St. Mungos, in which they promptly floo’d back to the Burrow, where they would be staying for the foreseeable future, so that Molly could help with the children.

However, despite the joyous mood of the night, Harry found that he couldn’t partake, and from what he could tell, neither could Ginny, likely for the same reason. Hermione’s lecture against both of them earlier that day in the hospital had torn his eyes open to something he had never thought himself to be guilty of, something that he‒shamefully‒didn’t think he COULD be guilty of, just by virtue of his mother’s blood status.

He looked around the table and took in the people who sat together, drinking butterbeer, still picking at the various desserts that Molly had laid along the table hours ago, and considered once more what Hermione said.

How many of these people around him, that he had known for his entire life, were guilty of what Hermione accused? He had been angry at her for hours and had refused to consider his own culpability until he’d begun to calm down and it shamed him to admit that she was right.

When the Malfoy trafficking scandal had broken earlier that year, it was out of the news and forgotten within two months, hidden away like a shameful secret. He remembered how everyone around the ministry had crowed performatively, before dropping the subject entirely in favour of sweeping it under the run, and whether that was done through malicious intent or avoidance of personal accountability truly was irrelevant in hindsight.

He observed everyone around him, uncomfortable with this new reality that he’d previously been‒willfully‒ignorant about, did anyone else know?

To his right, was Ron, smile plastered on his face as he recounted how tiny his newborn daughter’s fingernails were, and how he was certain she might have her mum’s hair because of how bald she was now, while Ginny to his left, his beautiful wife, normally so filled with exuberance, quietly stared into her butterbeer glass.

It was the whole family there, from Bill and his family, Victoire having been put to sleep an hour ago, and Fleur to his left, heavily pregnant with their second child. Charlie had portkeyed in from Peru, where he had spent the last year studying the native Vipertooth, unsurprisingly with more burns than the last time Harry had seen him. Percy and his fiancée Audrey sat quietly together near the end of the table, while George, Angelina and Lee played a game of snap opposite of them but listening in on Ron’s rambling. At the head of the table, of course, sat Arthur with Molly to his right, both winding down for the night, and across from him directly, was his own mother, a patient and kind smile decorating her features as she listened in on the jovial conversations around the table while Maya was playing gobstones with Jean Pierre in the sitting room, taking advantage of the lack of bedtime due to the celebration of a new Weasley.

The guest of honour, however, was upstairs in one of the rooms sleeping with her mother, as being a whole afternoon old did not leave her with a lot of energy. Géraldine had sat with them politely before excusing herself, with Émelie, her youngest sister and shadow quietly following behind, reminding Harry once more of Hermione’s words.

He’d only met the small girl twice, as she was highly distrustful of wizards, his stomach turning when he thought of why that might be and grasped Ginny’s hand under the table. He never considered for a moment that anyone could be capable of something so atrocious, had no idea to how deep the discrimination against muggleborns ran, he’d thought the Malfoy trafficking scandal had been out of hand and perhaps isolated, but with Leo’s disappearance, the wool had been pulled from his eyes, he felt lost about what to do or how to act.

“…Harry?”

He snapped out of his thoughts to Ron’s questioning tone and the eyes of everyone at the table. He turned to his friend.

“Mm? Sorry, caught in thought, come again?” he answered, noting his mother’s worried expression as she regarded him.

“I was asking if you knew why Hermione left, I think Dine was disappointed that she didn’t come tonight, I was going to tell her that I managed to forward Leo’s case to Shafiq after notifying Gamp‒”

“‒wait, what do you mean Leo’s case?” Bill cut him off, a line forming between his brows conveying worry and Harry removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose before opening his mouth to speak but Ginny cut him off, face twisted with regret.

“We had a row...with Hermione, Leo is missing, and I think it’s my fault, I told Harry and his family…I know I was careless, and Hermione let us have it, and rightfully so, I just didn’t think…and…oh, she was so angry and hurt,” she broke into sobs, putting her head in her hands. Harry quickly pulled her into his arms, it was clear the lashing Hermione gave them had affected Ginny even more than him. Bill’s expression as he observed his sister was that of worry still, and of disappointment.

“That was incredibly irresponsible, Gin,” he started, and she nodded her head in accordance, face a mess of tears, and he turned to address the rest of his siblings.

“When I told you lot, I specifically said that this needed to be kept in the family! For Merlin’s sake, Fleur didn’t even know! The only other person informed was Dumbledore and that’s only because he is Deputy Headmaster and Chief Warlock!” he stressed, while Charlie, Percy, George and Ron all lifted their hands in defence, each muttering that they hadn’t told anyone, and it was clear because everyone else around the table looked on in confusion.

Harry instantly felt defensive because it instantly implicated his family, and he looked towards his mother in support, only to find her staring into her water glass forlornly.

“…mum…? Please, tell them! No one in our family would do anything to hurt a muggleborn, right?” he pleaded, almost knowing in his heart that he was wrong. It was becoming apparent that Hermione was right even then and he felt once more shame and discontent creep upon him. Lily Evans-Potter sighed and brought her attention to him.

“It’s a lesson that I had hoped you would be spared, that regardless of how high of a regard you could hold another person, that they will let you down in the most horrible way,” she explained, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Who?” he asked, was it his godfather, Sirius? Who turned into a giant black dog to play fetch at his whim when he was younger? Uncle Moony, who read to him? Uncle Peter? Who played pranks on everyone else? Or was it his father?

Lily shook her head, weary.

“I can’t say for certain, but I will be speaking to your father about it, and then confronting them then,” she began, “and I know you want to defend your family, because its hard to come to terms that someone who would likely die for you, might think so callously of another person, for reasons completely out of their control‒” he scoffed, cutting her off.

“You speak of muggleborns as some other group of people, as if you aren’t one,” he reprimanded, feeling Hermione’s words sting him again. He felt that his situation was unique in that he had always been looked down on for having a muggleborn mother, and yet, seen as better than any other half-blood with muggle parentage, but despite having a muggleborn mother, he knew next to nothing of the muggle world and it was becoming apparent that that might be because his mother had legitimately tried to separate herself from the title.

He noticed her flinch at his words and felt bad, both for his tone when addressing her and for his inner thoughts, his mother had never denied her muggleborn status, not vocally anyway, but her actions suggested otherwise.

He decided to focus on this new topic to recover from the hurt that she would not disclose who she suspected to have sacrificed Leo’s safety, though realistically, he figured it didn’t matter now, because he would look into it tomorrow, regardless of if she or his father decided to tell him.

“Hermione lectured all of what you just stated, how none of us consider how our actions really affect muggleborns because it doesn’t truly affect us, but what struck me hard was that she had pointed out how little I knew about the muggle world, despite having a muggleborn mother, care to explain?” he asked, feeling wholehearted that his ire was misdirected but feeling too helpless in the grand theme of things to stop himself.

Arthur stood up, calling to divert the tension, the rest of the Weasley’s having stayed silent to this point, but his mother stopped him with a gentle raise of her hand.

“You’re right, and so is Hermione…there was a time that I was proud to be muggleborn,” she began, tone soft with recollection, “of course, I had known of the general discrimination, but at the time, I had such an intrinsic sense of self-worth, so much confidence in who I was as a person, and of what I could offer the world, that I had felt as if I could overcome the discrimination through sheer force of will…” she paused, running her tongue over her bottom lip apprehensively. He noticed that every Weasley had leaned in, enraptured by her story, so he asked what they were all thinking.

“What happened, mum, to change that?” he asked, captivated by this vulnerable side of his capable and graceful mother, and she smiled at him, though he noted that it didn’t reach her eyes.

“A betrayal, of course,” she quipped sadly.

“To preface, your father and I, during our years in Hogwarts, never got along…I thought he was an arrogant toe-rag with no regard for the victims of his pranks,” she retold, a smile twitching at her lips for a moment before she lost it, “I was friends with a half-blood boy who lived in the same neighbourhood as me, long before Hogwarts, and by the time we were eleven and had received our letters, we had been inseparable, to the point that it hadn’t even matter when I was sorted into Gryffindor, and he, Slytherin,” she paused to take a sip of her water.

Harry was in shock, he had never heard any of this about his mother, never heard about this friend and he wondered if his father and uncles knew whoever it was.

“Sev, my friend, had been on the wrong end of your father’s pranks more times than I can remember, furthering my dislike for him and your uncles, but I can say without any doubt that he gave as good as he got. Theirs was a rivalry that the whole school had been aware of, as they’d all looked on, thinking it was in good fun until a prank went wrong in fifth year…” she sighed, rubbing at her eyes as if remembering that particular day, pained her.

“Your father and your uncle Sirius, seemingly out of nowhere, had used a new jinx on my friend…I remember so clearly, it had been one of the first sunny days of spring, OWLs had just started commencing, Sev and I had been studying outside, and your father came around with a big group of Gryffindor housemates, goading him and eventually using the jinx which held him up in the air by his ankles, causing his robes to fall to his ears, flashing his pants to that large group of students,” his mother took a shuttering breath, and Harry knew he wouldn’t like what he heard next.

“I berated them until they let him down, but when I went to his side to help him, he snapped himself away, sneering that he didn’t need the help of a ‘filthy mudblood’,” she paused, clearing her throat, “no amount of discrimination I had ever faced, both since entering the magical world at age eleven, and to this day, had hurt as much as that moment, Harry, it had shattered all of my self-confidence and trust in everyone around me, because, if my closest friend could call me that vile word, what was everyone else thinking?” she asked, eyes imploring, and Harry shook his head, as he had no words, so she continued.

“I, despite my best efforts to seem unaffected, quickly came to resent my muggleborn status. I lashed out at your father and uncles, demanding an explanation for their actions, thinking that if he hadn’t been jinxed, then he would have never called me that. It was your father who told me the reason he’d done it, because the jinx had apparently been created by my friend and he had taught it to another Slytherin boy, Mulciber, who had cornered Mary Macdonald, another muggleborn, using it to assault her,” she stopped, a sneer touched along her upper lip before continuing, “despite his reasons that he clearly thought were justified, James apologized for doing it all the same, and apologized for the slur that I had been called, showing a maturity that had eventually changed my opinion of him, enough to give him a second chance.”

She looked at him, and reached across the table, asking for his hand, which he relinquished Ginny’s to oblige her.

“…but regardless that your father became my closest confidant and later, husband, the damage from my friend’s betrayal had been done. To the point that, in my professional life, and married life, I further distanced myself from my blood status, even more so when you were born, in hopes to protect you,” she explained and Harry nodded, squeezing his mother’s hand before letting go and leaning back in his seat.

“I don’t know what to do…” he began, feeling defeated, and it was true, his mother had her reasons for her actions, but what could he do if the life he lived inherently fed into this awful system?

“You start by not making it about you…” an accented voice called from behind, and they all turned to find Géraldine leaning against the entrance frame of the kitchen, housecoat tied tightly around her waist, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Dine!” Ron jumped up and guided her to his vacated seat, where she gratefully smiled, holding his hand tightly as she took it. She then turned to him and regarded him with an expression that felt belittling.

“The first step is to rid yourself of denial that you are culpable in some way, regardless of whether it is knowingly or unknowingly, and recognize that regardless of how highly you might think of us, or how well you personally treat us, that we walk in a far more dangerous world than you,” she began, then turned her attention to his mother.

“I was a lot like you, and I believe Hermione was, as well. Our transfer to the UK and Hogwarts from France and Beauxbatons was nothing short of traumatizing, for me…not only were my parents and older brother apprehended and eventually killed for my family’s faith and ethnicity, but I was separated from my remaining siblings, forced from my home country and school, only to be cursed in my new school just for being nouveau-sang…so, I understand what you mean…when you describe wanting to separate yourself from your blood status,” she spoke softly, while Ron kneaded his thumbs gently along her shoulders.

“Maybe I tried to distance myself from it, through my marriage, and when Ron adopted Jean Pierre, I felt relief that maybe my younger brother would be spared the same treatment that I’d faced,” she paused, reaching up to grab his hand, looking up at him as she gave a quick kiss to his knuckles.

“I love my husband, but it would be a bald-faced lie to say that I am not aware of the protection my marriage awards me, especially with the birth of our daughter…” she looked back at his mother, “I don’t blame you for what you did, but I cannot do the same, not after being finally reunited with Émelie and coming to learn of the trauma she lives with, I cannot ignore what this country and others are doing to muggleborns, doing to people like me, like Jean Pierre, Émelie, Hermione and Leo…” she turned to look back at him, and Harry felt emboldened in the words she was saying.

“We don’t have the luxury of ignoring this, but if you want to do something, truly do something to get involved, then you have to mean it, you have to rally for it, with every word that comes out of your mouth, and every thought you think. You have to want to change things until it becomes natural, it is not just fighting for it in the Wizengamot, but also correcting your peers, rooting out the corruption from every dark corner it hides away in, and holding each other accountable,” she stressed, wringing her hands.

“It is will be hard work, tiring work, but that is the only way change will come about, all I know is that it won’t come about without you, because we cannot do it on our own…there is so much you can do, especially when your word is seen as infinitely more valuable than mine, all I am asking is that you try,” she implored, this time to the whole table.

Harry looked at his mother and saw that her eyes were shining and that all of the Weasleys were nodding, from Bill to Percy, Charlie to George, and Arthur to Molly. Fleur, Audrey, Angelina, and Lee all looked resolute in the face of Géraldine’s words and looking down at Ginny, her beautiful brown eyes met his, her normal spark that had been absent from her expressions and posture since Hermione had taken them to task, was back and she had a fierce look in her eye. He kissed her forehead and folded her into his arms, and turned his head back to Géraldine, who he nodded to.

“Yes, we can do that.”

Chateau Lestrange – December 22nd, 1947

With a frustrated sigh, Leta lowered her hands and slumped in her seat. For the last three days, since she’d unlocked her magic, she had been trying to glimpse the warding schema of Chateau Lestrange, but such precise casting‒without alerting her uncle‒without a wand, was a lot more difficult than she’d originally anticipated.

Fortunately, by making peace with her mind, memories, and magic, she had awakened the ability of wandless casting, however, unfortunately, that did not mean she was automatically proficient at it.

Also, fortunately, she was no stranger to utilizing her significant patience. She’d been stuck in this Merlin-forsaken place since 1945, and she had been working on this escape plan for just about a year now, so long as her uncle remained none-the-wiser than she could wait a few days more. Her goal, currently, was to understand how exactly the wards worked, enough so that she could find a corner to tear open and make her escape without being noticed, at least immediately.

She estimated that she only needed eight minutes to make herself scarce and leave no trail. She would need to bunny hop apparate to smudge her trail before making her way to any of the five illegal portkey operators to flee the country. Once she was outside France, there were precisely four safehouses that she was positive only she‒and Grindelwald‒knew about, mostly because she’d been forced to follow at his heels like the tamed weapon that he’d made her into, and considering that she hadn’t been offered a plea deal in exchange for information, nor was she given any veritaserum, she was confident that they remained untouched since the end of the war.

Once she was free, she would need to take some time to plan, find a wand, take stock of the resources she had available, that being galleons, contacts, and information. For gold, she was confident that there were decent amounts still kept in the safehouses, it was how Grindelwald remained free to reign terror for so many years, as he was never financially cut off from any institution, as he didn’t trust them enough to give them that advantage.

When that was done, that was when the real work started, because that’s when she began compiling her hitlist, the top of it being specially reserved for her uncle and Grindelwald.

Leta was broken from her thoughts when a knock sounded at her door, and her anxiety instantly spiked. The one person to visit or even knock at her door would be her uncle, and it usually came with bad news. Had he discovered that she had her magic again? Or had she accidentally tipped him off with her prodding at the wards? Granted, her attempt might have been akin to setting an erumpent loose in a china shop, but she’d been careful, she was sure of it.

Hesitantly, she stood up and smoothed the skirt of her robes, calling for whoever it was to enter. Like she had guessed, her uncle entered, but oddly, an unfamiliar young wizard followed him in, as well. He was tall and lanky, early twenties, she guessed, with dark hair slicked back, minimal facial hair and a light olive complexion. His dark eyes locked on hers and she made note of how it unsettled her, she then turned her attention to address her uncle.

“Good afternoon, uncle, how can I help you today?” she clipped politely, deftly holding her rage in, now that she had magic again, the urge to set him on fire was quite strong. Her fury stalled at his expression of smug success, and somehow, she knew that this would entail bad news, particularly for her.

“Leta, I’d like to introduce you to Antonin Dolohov, he is to be your husband,” he announced cockily, and baffled, all she could do was blink.

She’d been right.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked dryly, gesturing to the young wizard, “him? He’s a child,” she scoffed, before crossing her arms.

“Absolutely not. I do not consent to this,” she finalized firmly.

She was not going to marry someone at her uncle’s behest, to be quite honest, she would rather die, and she certainly wasn’t going to marry someone who looked to be straight out of Hogwarts.

For Merlin’s sake, his voice was probably still cracking from puberty.

She was at least thirty years his senior, and this attempt of her uncles was, frankly, embarrassing. Glancing at the younger wizard, she held in a sneer. He was obviously pureblood, not only because her uncle would never consent to anything less, but she recognized the name, she’d once had the pleasure of meeting and working with a Yana Dolohova during her time with Grindelwald whenever he made his way North and was quite aware that they made quite the powerful family in Russia.

“I’m afraid that it is no longer up to you, your duty is to House Lestrange and it is high time you fulfill it. Besides, Dolohov has asked for you specifically, he says he is…inspired, by your work, that is,” he paused, pulling out a pocket watch from the pocket of his robes, “now, I have an appointment, but I will leave you two to become acquainted,” he finished deftly as he popped open the watch to look at the time.

“Are you out of your mind?!” she snapped, outraged at his temerity. Her uncle snorted, though unamused.

“Hardly, Leta dear, you are no longer a blushing virgin, therefore I have no need to ensure an innocence that no longer exists.” he turned to Dolohov, essentially dismissing her, “return to my office when you finish here to discuss the final part of your contract.” and with that, he straightened the cuffs of his robes and left the room. She brought her attention to her left-over company, immediately on her guard.

“I don’t know who you think you ar‒” she started but was cut off as he raised a finger to his lips, shushing her. She felt her eyebrows raise, the absolute gumption of this child!

“I beg your pardon?” she retaliated, only for him to swing a cut eye at her and pull out his wand from his right sleeve, causing her to freeze. Mentally, she went through her options, if he intended to harm her, she had two to choose from. First, she had a quill in the drawer of her desk, if she could get to it, she could likely take one of his eyes out, it wouldn’t kill him, but it might slow him down enough for her to make an escape out of the room, as it was unlikely warded if he expected Dolohov to return to his office.

Second, she had her magic…but without a wand, she opposed using it, not unless she wanted to take out the whole wing of the chateau with her lack of finesse in wandless casting. It would save her from assault, but lay waste to her plans as her uncle would be bound to notice that a quarter of his home was in smouldering ruin.

Surprisingly, he did not aim his wand at her at all, in fact, he silenced the room and cast a hominum revelio to ensure that they were alone. Only then, did he approach her carefully, raising her metaphorical hackles the closer he got.

“Not that you are not incredibly beautiful and that I wouldn’t enjoy shagging you, however, I am in a significant amount of pain and therefore, not in the mood,” he drawled, his accent smooth and lilted, and she watched as he winced as he reached into the cuff of his left sleeve and withdrew another wand, one that she instantly recognized, as it was her own. She looked up at him, bewildered, and noted now that he was closer, the beads of sweat that gathered at his hairline and the slight pinch in his expression as he cradled his left arm.

“How did you…are you alright?” she asked warily, and he eyed her, not quite handing over her wand and she understood that he was going to ask for something in return. Her wand had been confiscated upon her arrest, and she had assumed it to have been snapped, but seeing it whole and here gave her patience to hear him out.

“I will be…if you promise one thing in exchange for your wand,” he began, licking his lips before uttering a curse in Russian under his breath, and her own Russian was rusty at best, but it sounded like he was cursing loyalty? She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

“What is your price?” she asked, still thinking of the quill in her drawer. If she didn’t like the ultimatum, she could still attempt to overwhelm him and just take her wand.

“On the assumption that you will be leaving as soon as you receive your wand, in the East wing, second floor, third door to the right, decorated with a gold peony for a knocker, there is a package there, take it with you when you go,” he informed her, levelling a loaded stare at her that unsettled her more than she’d already been.

“How do I know that this isn’t a trap?” she asked, suspicious of his objective. What was he trying to do? Asking for her hand in marriage just to give her a wand, and not just any wand, but her own. What was the contract that had her uncle agreed to? What was the package? Was there even a package? Or was this some elaborate rouse that she was unaware of?

“You don’t,” he answered simply.

She narrowed her eyes. She did want her wand. She needed to know something before she agreed.

“What did you obtain from all of this?” she asked, wondering if he was some middleman to all of this. Mentally, she’d already agreed, because it was the least troublesome way to retrieve her wand, and technically, even if it was a trap, she had the means to fight her way to freedom. She watched as he seemed to regain his composure and stand straighter. He gently put pressure onto his forearm, and she wondered if he was hiding an injury.

“I wanted to test the parameters of something…besides, it did come with a decent pay,” he quipped, and she understood that she wasn’t getting much more than that.

In the end, she had agreed, and Dolohov had given her, her wand, and had gone about his way. She’d promptly stashed it within the same hole at the head of her mattress, along with the book she’d gotten from Slytherin, not trusting her uncle to not show up again. When midnight rolled around, she carefully retrieved it and gently prodded at the wards, memorizing them for an hour, before shrinking anything she might need, into her pockets and leaving her room without so much as a glance back.

Silencing her heels, she made her way to the East wing under disillusionment, her guard up and wand clutched tightly in her fingers that when she got to the room, she had to wipe the sweat that had gathered from her grip, against her robes. Regaining her composure, she began canvassing the door and the outside length of the room, looking for any wards, traps, or alarms. Finding only a light compulsion charm laced along the frame of the door, she undid it and quickly cast a hominum revelio. Learning that there was a person inside, she plotted.

Was the person a guard to the package? …Or was the person the package? She decided the only way she was going to know is if she went in, so keeping her guard up, she quietly grasped the gilded door handle and pulled it downwards, her focus narrowing at hearing the door unlatch.

Leta stepped into the room quietly to find it pitch black, and hearing nothing, she carefully closed the door behind her. She cast lumos, and her heart jumped into her throat at the sight that greeted her.

Tied to a seat in the middle of the room was a young boy, certainly no older than sixteen or seventeen, his face peppered with bruises as his head slumped against sideways, the light of her lumos bouncing off his cheekbone while his lashes fluttered from the light, as he slowly regained consciousness.

He had a light brown complexion, like her own, and a messy mop of coils on his head, and his eyes were brown as they opened, she watched as his pupils contracted from the light and noted the broken blood vessel in his right eye. Noticing that he wasn’t alone, he gave a strained whine and fought against the bonds around his arms, his eyes darting from her and down again in terror.

Her heart strained because not only was he so young, and so frightened, but in the back of her mind, she couldn’t deny that there was something about him that reminded her of Newt, though, not the man he was today, but the boy that had once been her closest friend.

She raised her hands in defence, to convince him that she meant him no harm. She spoke softly, cooing in an attempt to comfort.

“Hush, it’s alright, I’m not here to hurt you,” she told him as she kneeled in front of him, and it took a couple of minutes of repeated assurances before he started to calm down, though his pupils were still blown wide and his breath haggard in fear.

“What’s your name?” she asked, patiently watching him, as he continued to try and meet her eyes, only to fail as if the action pained him. He wet his chapped lips and spoke, his voice cracking, likely from the stress of torture, a side effect she was, unfortunately, familiar with.

“Leo.”

“Okay, Leo…would you like to leave this place with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> henlo friends, hope you're all well.
> 
> ...bye again until next chapter. 🤓


End file.
